THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


INDIA 


SIAM.    By  PIERRE  LOTI.    Illustrated.    Demy 
8vo.    7/6  net. 

This  is  an  account,  told  with  all  Loti's  charm  and 
grace,  of  a_  pilgrimage  undertaken  by  him  to  Siam. 
There  he  visits  the  famous  ruins  of  Angkor  in  the 
French  Protectorate  of  Cambodia.  He  first  tells  us 
how  in  his  childhood  an  illustration  in  a  review  had 
fired  his  imagination  with  a  desire  to  visit  the  ruins, 
had  filled  him  even  with  a  presentiment  that  one  day 
he  would  see  them. 

He  describes  with  his  extraordinary  pictorial  skill 
the  journey  from  Saigon  into  the  interior  ;  first  along 
the  River  Mekong,  at  the  time  in  flood,  then  through 
the  thick  forest  in  the  heart  of  which  is  buried  the 
ruins  of  Angkor-Thorn,  with  its  palaces  and  temples. 
Loti's  pathetic  and  sentimental  spirit  is  at  home 
amongst  these  ruins,  which  are  all  that  remains  of  the 
proud  Empire  of  the  Khmers  which  flourished  for 
some  1,500  years  (300  B.C.  to  A.D.  1200). 

On  the  return  journey  Loti  attends  a  performance 
of  the  Corps  de  Ballet  of  King  Norodon,  and  sees  re- 
presented scenes  from  the  Ramazana,  which  exactly 
reproduced  those  he  had  seen  on  the  bas-relief  of 
Angkor-vat. 

EGYPT.  By  PIERRE  LOTI.  Translated  by 
W.  P.  Baines,  and  with  Plates  in  full  colour 
from  paintings  by  Augustus  O.  Lamplough. 
Demy  8vo.  7/6  net. 

A_  wonderfully  fascinating  book,  conveying  vivid 
pictures  of  the  charm  of  Egypt  and  the  marvels  of  its 
antiquity.  Loti,  as  is  his  wont,  endeavours  to  get  at 
the  heart  of  what  he  sees,  as  he  steeps  himself  in  the 
enchantment  of  moonlit  temples  erected  by  the  most 
ancient  of  civilisations,  watches  the  sun  set  behind 
the  illimitable  wastes  of  the  desert,  glides  over  the 
darkening  waters  of  the  half-submerged  island  of 
Philae,  "  Pearl  of  Egypt,"  or  listens  to  the  mournful 
song  of  the  boatman  as  he  drifts  on  his  dahabieh 
down  the  Nile  ;  and  gradually  a  comprehension  grows 
upon  him  of  the  reasons  that  made  Egypt  the  first 
country  to  awaken  from  the  torpor  of  barbarism  and 
to  build  monuments  which  are  the  wonder  and 
admiration  of  the  whole  of  the  modern  world.  He 
realises  the  greatness  and  feels  to  the  full  her  spell. 


THK  ROCK,  TRICHINOPOLY 


INDIA 


BY 


PIERRE   LOTI 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  BY  GEORGE 
A.  F.  INMAN  (OF  BOWDON),  EDITED  BY 
ROBERT  HARBOROUGH  SHERARD.  A  NEW 
EDITION  PICTURED  BY  A.  HUGH  FISHER,  A.R.E. 


NEW   YORK 
DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 


V 


Library 


f/3 


/?  /? 

u  u 


CONTENTS 

PAGH 

INTRODUCTION       .....         l 

CHiPTKR 

I.    THE  BURIED  CITY         ....        5 
II.    THE  ROCK  TEMPLE        ....       13 

III.  THE  HOME  OF  THE  MAHARAJAH  OF  TRA- 

VANCORE 21 

IV.  IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GREAT  PALMS       .       87 
V.    IN  FAMISHED  INDIA       .         .         .         .143 

VI.    TOWARDS  BENARES         ....     221 
INDEX 279 


NOTE 

The  Publishers  gratefully  acknowledge  the 
kind  permission  of  the  Visual  Instruction 
Committee  (Colonial  Office)  to  reproduce 
in  this  volume  the  various  paintings  and 
drawings  by  A.  Hugh  Fisher,  A.R.E. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  ROCK,  TRICHINOPOLY  (Coloured  Plate)  Frontispiece 

PACING)  PAGE 

THE  ROCK  TEMPLE 16 

HINDOO  CHILD,  WITH  EAR-LOBES  LENGTHENED  BY 

WEIGHTY  RINGS 84 

A  HINDOO  LADY          ......       58 

A  WAYSIDE  DIVINITY  NEAR  THE  BASE  OF  THE 

ROCK,  TRICHINOPOLY  .....  90 
A  MOHAMMEDAN  TYPE  .  .  .  .  .98 

" RINGS  ON  HER  TOES" 114 

AVENUE  OF  OREODOXA  PALMS  (Coloured  Plate)  .  126 
HINDOO  WOMAN  AND  BABE  .  .  .  .  .180 

A  HINDOO  ACTRESS 184 

THE  PALACE  OF  ODEYPOURE  .  .  .  .174 
HINDOOS  CROSSING  THE  SEA  ....  224 

OVERLOOKING  THE  JUMNA 286 

THE  INCOMPARABLE  TAJ 238 

A  CITIZEN  OF  DELHI 240 

THE  ROSE-COLOURED  GRANITE  TOWER  .  .  .  242 
BATHING  IN  THE  SACRED  WATERS,  BENARES  .  .  258 

CHILDREN 272 

vii 


INDIA 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  is  midday  on  the  Red  Sea.  There  is  light,  light 
everywhere,  so  much  light  that  cries  of  admiration 
and  astonishment  are  forced  from  us  ;  it  is  as  if  we 
issue  from  gloom  into  a  clear  air  of  boundless  space. 
The  passage  from  our  Northern  Autumn  to  the  per- 
petual Summer  that  reigns  here,  is  made  almost 
imperceptibly  by  our  modern  ships  that  do  not  heed 
the  wind.  Silvery  crested  waves  dance  on  the  blue 
waters,  and  the  sky  seems  more  distant  from  the 
earth  ;  the  clouds,  too,  have  more  definite  form  and 
are  further  off ;  new  depths  of  space  become  ap- 
parent, and  our  horizon  is  extended. 

It  seems  as  though  our  eyes  could  appreciate  new 
forms  and  colours  in  the  increasing  brightness  which 
we  had  been  unable  to  perceive  before.  From  what 
a  land  of  shadows  we  must  have  come,  and  what  can 
this  festival  of  light  be  that  has  sprung  on  us  sud- 
denly and  unbidden  ? 

A  melancholy  brightness  pours  relentlessly  on  this 
land  of  tombs,  this  country  thick  with  dust  of  by- 
gone races  ;  but  we  forget  it  when  we  reach  our 
northern  clime,  and  are  surprised  to  find  it  there  once 
more  on  our  return.  Its  rays  shine  constantly  on 
the  hot  and  languid  gulfs,  and  on  their  sand  or 
granite  shores  ;  it  bathes  the  ruins  and  that  world 
of  dead  stones  which  guard  the  ancestral  faith  and 
the  secrets  of  those  the  Bible  tells  us  of.  This  melan- 
choly light  is  ever  present,  just  as  it  must  have  been 


2  INTRODUCTION 

in  the  old,  sacred  times,  and  these  things  give  our 
narrow  imagination  a  sense  of  infinity,  and  tell  of  a 
time  without  beginning  or  end.  The  biblical  times, 
however,  whose  antiquity  inspires  our  trust,  are  but 
of  yesterday  when  we  look  back  on  the  history  of  the 
world,  fearful  in  the  immensity  of  the  past.  This 
superb  and  intoxicating  brightness  is  but  the  passing 
effect  of  our  slowly  decaying  little  sun  upon  a 
favoured  zone  of  our  still  smaller  earth,  an  earth  that 
nestles  close  to  him,  as  if  frightened  by  the  vast  and 
chill  orbits  of  the  other  planets. 

The  blue  sky  too,  enwoven  with  the  phantasy  of 
passing  clouds,  that  looks  so  deep,  is  but  a  thin, 
deceptive  veil  that  serves  to  screen  the  yawning 
space  behind.  No,  this  is  all  nothing,  only  the  space 
behind  is  real. 

This  empty  space,  this  black  abyss  into  which 
worlds  ceaselessly  fall,  this  kingdom  that  knows 
neither  commencement  nor  decay,  is  the  one  eternal 
reality. 

I  must  yet  spend  some  seven  or  eight  days  amidst 
the  shining  blue  of  heaven  and  sky  before  I  reach 
my  journey's  end.  I  make  my  way  to  India,  the 
cradle  of  human  faith  and  thought,  with  nameless 
dread,  fearing  that  I  may  find  nothing  but  a  cruel 
and  final  deception. 

I  have  not  come  here  to  make  a  trifling  call,  but 
to  ask  or  beg  the  keepers  of  the  Aryan  wisdom  to 
give  me  their  belief  in  the  lasting  duration  of  the 
soul  in  place  of  the  ineffable  Christian  faith  which 
has  vanished  from  my  soul. 

The  day  declines  in  wondrous  splendour.  The  sun 
that  draws  us  with  him  in  the  madness  of  his  eternal 
wandering  will  soon  have  passed  from  our  view. 
Our  side  of  the  world  will  turn  towards  that  deep 
space,  towards  that  land  of  shadow  which  the  trans- 
parencies of  the  night  air  will  let  us  see  more  clearly. 
But  now  the  magic  of  the  evening,  with  the  burning 
rays  of  coppery  rose,  steals  on  us.  In  the  east  a 
chain  of  desolate  mountains,  whose  granite  slopes 


INTRODUCTION  3 

glow  like  a  furnace,  rise  from  the  sea.  They  are 
Sinai,  Serbal,  and  Horeb,  and  the  feeling  of  religious 
respect,  which  centuries  have  impressed  upon  our 
race,  invades  us  once  more. 

The  burning  summits  do  not  linger  long,  for  the 
sun  has  sunk  beneath  the  waters  and  the  evening 
enchantment  is  over.  Sinai,  Serbal,  and  Horeb  fade 
in  the  twilight,  and  are  no  longer  distinguishable. 
Were  they  other  than  crests  of  jagged  rock,  idealized 
in  our  minds  by  the  superb  poetry  of  Exodus  ?  Vast 
and  calm  night  will  soon  restore  all  things  to  their 
true  proportions,  for  space  is  already  filled  by  legions 
of  wandering  suns  which  make  me  think  of  the  black 
emptiness  into  which  they  and  we  are  falling.  I 
dream,  too,  of  the  miserable  fate  of  our  little  planets 
chained  to  a  sun  that  they  can  never  hope  to  reach, 
ever  attempting  to  narrow  the  orbits  of  their  mad 
circlings,  instead  of  plunging  into  space  as  do  the 
more  glorious  suns. 

A  cloudless  limpidity  spreads  from  the  zenith  to 
the  horizon,  and  the  limitless  void  into  which  myriads 
of  worlds  fall  (like  sparks  from  a  rain  of  fire)  is  un- 
bared before  our  eyes. 

A  sense  of  alleviation  comes  from  the  starry  night, 
like  some  breath  of  tenderness  or  pity  that  is  poured 
into  a  pardoned  soul. 

My  God  !  If  the  Indian  sages  that  I  seek  could 
but  convince  me  that  I  might  find  pardon  and  pity 
too. 


THE    BURIED    CITY 


CHAPTER    I 
THE    BURIED    CITY1 

INDIA  at  last,  with  its  forests  and  its  jungles.  The  sun 
dawns  on  a  forest  of  vegetation,  an  ocean  of  eternal 
greenery  ;  whilst  a  boundless  plain  of  mystery  and 
silence  stretches  from  my  feet  to  the  extreme  horizon. 

I  watch  the  light  dawning  on  this  silent  wilderness 
of  green  from  the  summit  of  a  hill  that  rises  like  an 
island  out  of  the  plains.  It  is  India  of  the  forests  and 
the  jungles,  though  veiled  in  mist.  In  the  centre  of 
Ceylon,  sheltered  by  interlacing  trees,  there  is  a  spot 
of  profoundest  peace  :  it  is  the  place  where  the  mar- 
vellous Anuradhapura  stood — the  city  which  was 
buried  in  a  night  of  leaves  more  than  two  thousand 
years  ago.  The  day  breaks  slowly  through  a  leaden  sky, 
thick  with  storm  and  gloom.  The  midnight  hour  is 
striking  now  in  France,  but  here  the  earth  presents 
this  region  of  crumbling  ruins  to  the  sun  once  more. 

Where  can  the  wonderful  town  be  ?  I  look  round, 
like  a  sailor  searching  from  the  mast  across  the  sea,  but 
nothing  of  human  origin  is  visible.  Nothing  but  trees, 
trees  everywhere,  trees  in  serried  ranks,  a  rolling  forest 
which  loses  itself  in  illimitable  distance.  Lower  down 
there  are  lakes,  inhabited  by  crocodiles,  where  herds  of 
wild  elephants  come  at  dusk  to  drink.  From  the  forest 
and  the  jungles  the  morning  call  of  birds  is  heard. 
But  are  there  no  traces  of  the  marvellous  city  left  ? 

Here  and  there,  however,  are  some  curious  green 
and  wooded  hills,  which  rise  in  a  strangely  regular 
fashion  above  the  leafy  plains.  They  are  the  towers 
of  old  temples  and  giant  dagabas,  built  two  centuries 
before  the  reign  of  Christ ;  the  forest  has  been  unable 

1  This  is  the  literal  translation  of  the  Indian  name.  Anurad- 
hapura was  destroyed  at  the  commencement  of  our  era  by  the 
great  Malabar  invasion. 


8  THE  BURIED  CITY 

to  destroy  them,  but  has  wrapped  them  in  its  green 
winding-sheet,  covering  them  gradually  with  its  soil,  its 
roots,  its  monkeys,  and  its  trailing  growths.  The  place 
where  men  worshipped  in  the  earliest  times  of  Buddha 
is  still  nobly  marked,  and  the  sacred  city  which  slum- 
bers under  all  these  overhanging  branches  is  still  here. 
Even  this  hill  on  which  I  stand  was  once  a  sacred 
dagaba — built  by  myriads  of  the  faithful  in  honour 
of  their  prophet,  the  forerunner  and  brother  of  Jesus. 
The  pediment  is  guarded  by  a  row  of  elephants 
carved  in  stone,  and  by  gods  whose  features  time 
has  now  obliterated.  What  a  delirium  of  prayer  and 
adoration,  and  what  a  din  of  crashing  music  must 
have  daily  filled  this  temple  in  the  olden  times  ! 

"  The  Temples  and  the  Palaces  of  Anuradhapura 
are  numberless,  and  their  golden  cupolas  and  pavilions 
shimmer  in  the  sun.  In  the  streets  are  crowds  of 
soldiers  armed  with  bows  and  arrows.  Elephants, 
horses,  chariots,  and  countless  multitudes  pass  in  a 
continual  turmoil.  There  are  jugglers,  dancers,  and 
musicians  from  many  lands,  whose  timbals  gleam 
with  golden  ornaments." 

Now  there  is  silence,  shadow,  and  green  night ; 
men  have  passed  away  and  the  forest  has  closed  on 
everything.  The  wakening  morning  shines  on  all 
these  buried  ruins  as  calmly  as  it  shone  on  the  virgin 
forest  in  the  first  dawnings  of  creation. 

Before  visiting  the  mainland,  I  must  wait  some  days 
in  Ceylon  for  the  reply  of  a  noble  Maharajah  whose 
guest  I  am  to  be,  and  I  have  preferred  to  seek  shelter 
here,  rather  than  in  the  vulgar  towns  of  the  coast. 

I  had  to  leave  Kandy  (the  home  of  the  old  Cinga- 
lese kings)  before  daybreak,  travelling  through  the 
region  of  the  great  palms,  where  all  the  magnificence 
of  the  equatorial  land  is  unfurled.  After  midday  the 
appearance  of  the  country  changes,  feathered  palms 
and  areca  trees  gradually  disappear.  Doubtless  we 
have  entered  into  a  colder  zone,  for  the  forests  re- 
semble our  own  more  closely.  The  little  coach 
travels  through  an  incessant,  warm,  and  scented  rain, 


THE  BURIED   CITY  g 

drawn  by  horses  which  are  changed  every  few  miles. 
Sometimes  we  gallop  along  the  streaming  road,  or 
fall  into  an  obstinate  trot,  broken  by  ugly  rushes. 

More  than  once  we  have  to  jump  down,  because 
some  half-trained  brute  threatens  to  destroy  every- 
thing. Two  Indians  drive  our  ever-changing  team  ; 
one  holds  the  reins,  whilst  the  other  is  ready  to  jump 
down  should  danger  threaten.  A  third  blows  a  horn 
as  we  pass  through  villages  scattered  amongst  tree 
palms,  or  warns  the  slowly-moving  zebu  carts.  We 
should  have  reached  our  destination  at  eight  o'clock, 
but  the  storms  constantly  increase  our  delay. 

Towards  evening  villages  become  rarer,  and  the 
forest  is  more  dense.  There  are  no  more  of  those 
cleared  spaces  which  looked  so  small  and  so  lost  by 
the  side  of  the  all-conquering  forest ;  and  our 
trumpeter  has  no  longer  need  to  play  for  any  one. 

The  palms  have  altogether  disappeared,  and  now 
that  the  day  has  declined  I  should  have  said  that  we 
were  in  some  lonely  European  land  where  a  perpetual 
summer  reigns.  It  is  true  that  the  tangle  of  climbing 
plants  is  more  luxuriant,  and  from  time  to  time  we  pass 
a  flowering  cactus,  or  some  great  red  lily  with  twisted 
petals,  or  gorgeous  butterfly  chased  by  a  more  gorgeous 
bird,  which  tell  us  that  this  is  not  our  home.  But  the 
illusion  of  our  country  and  our  woods  ever  returns. 

Since  sunset  we  have  passed  neither  village  nor 
trace  of  man  ;  silence  reigns  in  the  green  depths 
through  which  our  road  takes  its  interminable  course, 
and  we  are  travelling  much  faster  now  in  the  warm 
caressing  rain  that  still  beats  on  us. 

As  darkness  comes  on,  an  insect  humming  gradually 
rises  from  the  ground  and  makes  the  silence  more 
perceptible.  On  the  damp  forest  soil  myriads  of 
wings  keep  up  a  noisy  music  ;  such  music  as  has 
been  heard  nightly  since  the  birth  of  the  world. 

The  sky  is  covered,  and  the  night  quite  dark.  For 
hours  we  have  trotted  rapidly  between  two  great 
rows  of  trees,  which  resemble  overgrown  and  fantastic 
hedges  in  some  boundless  park.  Sometimes  great 


io  THE  BURIED   CITY 

black  animals  loom  out  of  the  shadows  and  bar  our 
further  progress,  harmless  and  stupid  buffaloes  which 
we  must  drive  aside  with  whips  and  cries.  The  road 
once  more  resumes  its  dull  monotony,  and  silence  is 
only  broken  by  joyous  insect  rustlings. 

One  thinks  of  the  forest  denizens  sheltered  by  the 
calm  of  night,  large  and  small  wild  creatures  on  the 
watch  or  on  the  prowl,  so  many  pricked  ears,  and  so 
many  dilated  eyes  watching  the  least  movement  in 
the  shadowy  wood. 

The  clearing  through  the  mysterious  trees  extends 
ceaselessly  in  front  of  us,  a  pale  gray  streak  hemmed 
in  by  high  black  walls  ;  in  front,  behind,  and  on  all 
sides  the  impenetrable  jungles  cast  their  terrifying 
shadows  on  us. 

When  our  eyes  have  grown  accustomed  to  the 
night,  we  can  see,  as  if  in  a  dream,  the  vague  forms  of 
velvet-footed  prowlers  flitting  amongst  the  thickets. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock  some  little  lights  are  seen, 
and  the  roadsides  are  strewn  with  the  long  stones  of 
crumbling  ruins,  and  above  the  trees  the  silhouette  of 
giant  dagabas  stand  darkly  forth  against  the  gloomy 
sky.  I  had  been  warned,  so  I  knew  that  these  were 
not  hills,  but  only  the  temples  of  the  buried  city. 

We  found  our  night's  lodging  at  an  Indian  inn, 
standing  in  an  exquisite  garden,  whose  flowers 
beamed  in  the  light  of  our  passing  lamps. 

Now  the  day  dawns,  and  in  the  forest  beneath  me 
I  can  hear  the  birds  awakening  ;  bushes  and  weeds 
like  those  of  the  jungles  surround  me  as  I  stand  on 
the  temple's  tower.  Gray-winged  bats,  whose  slum- 
bers I  have  disturbed,  flit  in  the  morning  air,  and  tiny 
leaping  squirrels,  full  of  vitality  and  grace,  peer  at 
me  from  out  their  leafy  hiding-places. 

At  my  feet  some  of  the  trees  which  form  the  wind- 
ing street  of  the  dead  city  are  decked  as  for  a  spring 
pageant  with  red,  rose,  and  yellow  flowers.  Sud- 
denly a  storm  breaks  over  their  heads,  passes  on, 
and  disappears  like  a  mist  in  the  dim  distance. 

Now  the  sun  quickly  rises  from  the  rain-clouds  and 


THE    BURIED   CITY  n 

beats  down  upon  my  head  ;  it  is  time  to  seek  some 
shady  cover,  so  I  descend  the  sacred  tower  by  a 
ladder  of  branches  to  the  green  night  where  the  men 
of  this  country  dwell. 

Amongst  the  monstrous  roots  which  twist  like  ser- 
pents over  the  red  earth,  lie  confused  heaps  of  ruins 
and  fallen  stones.  Hundreds  of  broken  gods,  stone 
elephants,  altars,  and  chimeras  are  scattered  about, 
giving  proof  of  the  fearful  havoc  wrought  by  the 
Malabar  conquerors  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago. 

Pious  Buddhists  of  our  times  have  collected  the 
most  precious  relics  from  the  precincts  of  the  inde- 
structible dagabas,  and  have  ranged  the  decapitated 
heads  of  the  old  gods  in  rows  along  the  steps  of  pros- 
trate temples.  Some  shapeless  and  broken  altars  still 
stand  upright.  These  they  decorate  each  morning 
with  beautiful  flowers  and  ever-burning  lamps. 

Anuradhapura  in  their  eyes  is  still  the  sacred  city 
where  pilgrims  from  afar  come  to  meditate  and  pray 
in  the  shadow  of  the  great  trees. 

The  dimensions  and  outlines  of  the  great  temples 
are  still  marked  by  sequences  of  columns,  stones,  and 
marbles  starting  from  the  towers  and  losing  them- 
selves in  the  woods.  The  most  sacred  spot  was  only 
reached  after  threading  an  interminable  series  of 
passages,  which  were  guarded  by  inferior  'gods  and 
monsters,  a  world  of  stone  images  now  lying  scattered 
and  broken  on  the  ground. 

Besides  these  temples  which  rise  above  the  swelling 
jungle,  there  are  hundreds  more  which  have  fallen 
down,  also  the  ruins  of  countless  palaces.  There  are 
as  many  columns  hidden  in  the  forest  as  there  are  tree 
trunks,  and  all  mingle  in  the  eternal  green  twilight. 

Towards  the  beginning  of  our  era,  the  Princess 
Sanghamitta,  who  was  a  great  believer,  had  a  branch 
of  the  tree  which  sheltered  Buddha,  when  the  true  faith 
was  first  revealed  to  him,  brought  here  from  the  north 
of  India ;  that  branch  still  lives  and  has  become  a  great 
and  complex  tree,  for  after  the  manner  of  the  banyan 
the  branches  have  rooted  too  ;  it  is  surrounded  by 


12  THE  BURIED  CITY 

venerable  altars,  daily  strewn  with  fresh  sweet-smelling 
flowers,  on  whose  stones  the  ever-lighted  sacred  lamps 
keep  constant  vigil  amidst  the  dim  green  twilight. 

A  gloom  of  sadness  is  thrown  over  the  forest  by  the 
beautifully  sculptured  marble  porches,  whose  steps 
are  guarded  by  smiling  gods,  which  lead  to  no  house. 
Time  has  left  no  further  trace  of  these  dwellings, 
which  were  of  wood,  but  the  steps  and  paving  stones, 
and  the  gorgeous  entrances  which  open  on  to  weeds 
and  roots  and  earth. 

In  one  corner  of  Anuradhapura  a  village  has  existed 
for  several  years,  a  pastoral  village  which  does  not 
disturb  the  melancholy  of  the  place,  for  it  is  concealed, 
like  the  ruins  themselves,  under  overhanging  branches. 

The  Indians  who  have  returned  to  the  buried  city 
do  not  cut  down  the  forest  trees,  but  merely  clear  away 
the  brambles  and  trailing  growths,  unbaring  the  fine 
sward  where  their  goats  and  zebus  can  pasture  at  their 
pleasure,  happy  in  wandering  through  thesacred  groves. 

Those  who  dwell  among  the  sacred  ruins,  who 
bathe  in  the  ponds  of  the  old  palaces,  think  that  the 
spirits  of  the  princes  and  the  kings  of  old  return. 
So  they  shun  the  shadows  of  the  great  dagabas  on 
moonlit  nights.  All  conspires  to  make  the  spot  a 
shady  refuge  for  prayer  and  meditation.  A  church- 
like  calm  hovers  over  the  woody  glens  and  the  fine 
carpeting  of  grass,  on  which  tall  trees  rain  down 
showers  of  blossoms  like  large  azaleas. 

How  touching  it  is  to  see  little  lamps  placed  before 
the  statues  broken  two  thousand  years  ago,  and  fresh 
flowers  that  deck  these  old  stones ! 

It  is  not  usual  to  offer  bouquets  to  the  Indian  gods, 
but  rather  to  strew  the  altars  with  flowers  ;  jasmines 
in  large  quantities — nothing  but  the  flowers  snatched 
from  their  stalks — gardenias  and  waxy  blooms  of 
heavy  odour  that  form  a  scented  ground  on  which 
Bengal  roses  and  red  hibiscus  flowers  are  placed  ;  and 
there  are  many  such  scattered  over  the  stones  of  these 
crumbling  temples,  whose  mouldering  remains  daily 
sink  deeper  into  the  earth. 


THE    ROCK    TEMPLE 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  ROCK  TEMPLE 

AT  the  edge  of  the  forest  which  shelters  the  ruins, 
and  close  by  the  jungle,  stands  the  Rock  Temple 
in  which  the  ancient  images  of  the  gods  are  still 
preserved  intact. 

Scattered  about  in  various  parts  of  the  wild  plain 
we  perceive  rocks  similar  to  those  of  the  temple. 

Some  ancient  cataclysm  must  have  hurled  these 
smooth,  round  masses  here.  The  swollen,  brown 
shapes  that  look  like  enormous  beasts  crouched 
amongst  the  grasses,  bear  no  resemblance  to  the  sur- 
rounding soil. 

Those  which  shelter  the  temple  look  like  a  collec- 
tion of  reposing  monsters,  and  the  largest  ones  sup- 
port the  upright  dagaba  (the  Buddhist  steeple),  just  as 
an  elephant  carries  its  tower  ;  an  old  whitewashed 
tower  rising  from  a  sombre  base.  As  I  approach  the 
solitary  wastes  of  the  jungle,  sketched  out  silently  in 
the  hot  evening  sun,  there  is  no  one  near  the  temple. 
The  heaps  of  scented  flowers  lying  on  the  ground, 
jasmines  and  gardenias,  and  the  faded  wreaths  of 
former  days  tell  one  that  the  gods  are  not  forgotten. 

The  monster-like  rocks  are  bathed  on  one  side  by 
a  lagoon  in  which  crocodiles  dwell  under  the  lotus 
leaves.  On  drawing  closer,  faint  lines  can  be  seen 
etched  on  the  sides  of  the  polished  stones,  vague  bas- 
reliefs  so  faintly  traced  as  to  resemble  mere  reflections, 
but  drawn  with  such  skill  as  to  give  a  semblance  of 
life  ;  trunks,  feet,  ears,  and  the  general  outlines  of 
elephants  are  here.  The  mysterious  characteristics 
of  the  stones,  which  naturally  resemble  the  skin  of 

'5 


16  THE  ROCK  TEMPLE 

the  royal  animals  in  texture  and  colour,  have  been 
utilized,  too,  with  the  strangest  art. 

Plants  have  grown  here  and  there  in  the  hollows 
of  the  rounded  stones,  plants  whose  sharp  outlines  and 
vivid  colourings  contrast  hi  an  unreal  fashion  with 
the  surrounding  tones  of  old,  dull  leather,  for  the  hue  of 
the  periwinkles  is  too  rosy  and  the  hibiscus  flowers 
are  much  too  red,  whilst  the  young  areca  trees,  whose 
tufted  plumes  droop  from  their  thin  stalks,  are  too 
magnificently  green. 

Behind  the  group  of  rocks  is  concealed  an  old  house 
which  shelters  the  priestly  guardians  of  the  temple, 
one  of  whom  now  advances  to  meet  me.  He  is  young, 
and,  like  all  Buddhist  priests,  clothed  in  a  single, 
saffron-coloured  garment  which  leaves  one  arm  and 
shoulder  exposed.  He  brings  a  highly  ornamented 
key,  over  a  foot  in  length,  to  open  the  sanctuary  for 
me.  As  he  advances,  key  in  hand,  his  beautiful 
grave  face  and  mystic  eyes  give  him  the  look  of  some 
bronze-coloured  St.  Peter,  clothed  in  raiment  of 
coppery  yellow  that  the  sun  has  gilded. 

We  ascend  a  stairway  cut  in  the  rock  out  of  whose 
rugged  sides  periwinkles  grow ;  the  dreary  wastes 
of  the  jungles  extending  around  us.  The  sanctuary 
is  hollowed  out  of  the  heart  of  the  principal  stone,  and 
we  first  enter  a  little  cavern,  a  sort  of  atrium  contain- 
ing a  table  covered  with  white  gardenias  on  which  the 
offerings  for  the  gods  are  placed.  At  the  back  is  the 
entry  to  the  sacred  place,  an  entry  guarded  by  bronze 
doors  and  a  huge  chased  lock. 

When  the  doors  are  thrown  open  with  a  grating 
crash,  the  huge  painted  idols  confront  us,  and  it 
seems  as  if  some  great  cavern  of  precious  perfumes 
had  been  unsealed,  for  freshly  sprinkled  essences  of 
roses  and  sandal,  masses  of  gardenias  and  tuberose 
make  a  thick  white  carpet  on  the  ground,  and  embalm 
the  air  with  intoxicating  odours.  Thus  are  the  gods, 
who  live  in  an  almost  perpetual  gloom,  ever  bathed 
in  the  most  exquisite  scents. 

There  is  hardly  room  for  four  or  five  persons  in  the 


ifetllH 


>J&a  -  PM 

^  '     '  JtH&rp-  V   '!•        '  •  i^/,^      / 

-i^iS'l 

•--".4&^&&s5t&i&KW\\  'I  ,  L  vw'5  • 


THE  ROCK  TEMPLE. 


THE  ROCK  TEMPLE  17 

narrow  temple,  which  is  shut  in  like  a  dungeon  and 
almost  filled  by  the  statues.  Goddesses  twelve  feet  in 
height,  cut  from  the  solid  rock,  decorate  the  walls 
with  their  closely  serried  forms  ;  their  faces  have 
the  same  yellow  tint  as  the  priest's  robe,  and  their 
head-dresses  touch  the  ceiling.  A  Buddha  of  super- 
human size  is  seated  in  the  middle,  in  the  pose  of 
one  sunk  in  a  perpetual  dream,  and  smaller  gods  of 
the  size  of  dolls  are  gathered  round  his  knees,  whilst 
the  circle  of  staring  goddesses  seems  to  be  gathered 
round  in  an  air  of  anxious  expectation.  In  spite 
of  the  brilliance  of  their  golden  ornaments  and  the 
freshness  of  the  blue  and  red  colouring  of  their 
stony  robes,  these  long-eyed  divinities  give  one  the 
instant  impression  of  fearful  antiquity. 

My  unexpected  visit  has  allowed  a  little  daylight  to 
filter  into  their  grotto  and  permitted  them  to  see, 
through  the  open  vestibule,  the  confines  of  the  jungle, 
where  their  crowds  of  worshippers  lived  in  bygone 
ages.  I  look  at  them  for  a  moment,  almost  em- 
barrassed at  finding  myself  so  close  in  front  of  them, 
and  I  soon  allow  the  priest  to  close  the  holy  closet, 
so  that  the  inmates  of  the  rock  may  be  plunged  once 
more  in  silence  and  scented  shades. 

I  take  my  leave,  for  I  cannot  understand  these 
symbols,  and  this  Buddhist  peace  is  as  yet  hidden 
from  me  ;  the  guardian  in  the  yellow  robe  goes  calmly 
back  to  his  hermitage — priest  of  a  strange  temple, 
having  no  other  care  than  the  arrangement  of  his 
flowers,  living  a  joyless  life  in  this  deserted  place 
where  sorrow  never  comes,  living  only  in  the  hope 
that  he  may  prolong  his  ego — after  this  present 
incarnation  has  ended — in  an  impersonal  and  sad 
eternity. 

The  sun  is  sinking  as  I  leave  the  Rock  Temple  to 
return  to  the  lofty  forest  under  which  Anuradhapura 
slumbers,  and  as  I  am  leaving  to-morrow  at  daybreak, 
I  will  wander  amongst  the  ruins  till  night  comes. 

"  The  largest  streets  are  those  of  The  Moon,  The 
King,  The  Sand-Covered  Street  and  a  fourth.  In  the 


i8  THE  ROCK  TEMPLE 

Street  of  The  Moon  there  are  eleven  thousand  houses. 
The  distance  from  the  principal  door  to  the  door 
of  the  South  is  sixteen  miles  ;  and  from  the  door  of 
the  North  to  the  door  of  the  South  is  sixteen  miles 
also." 

In  reality,  these  fallen  stones,  these  ruins  and  sculp- 
tures of  the  olden  times,  seem  never-ending  ;  gods 
crowned  with  tiaras,  heraldic  monsters  with  the  bodies 
of  crocodiles,  elephants'  trunks,  and  birds'  tails. 
Columns  everywhere,  some  standing,  others  fallen 
and  broken  ;  the  thresholds  of  the  fallen  houses, 
guarded  on  each  side  by  a  smiling  goddess,  seem  to 
invite  us  to  enter,  amidst  thickets  of  roots  and  ferns — 
the  houses  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  olden  times, 
people  who  were  hospitable  no  doubt,  but  whose 
dust  has  ceased  to  exist  centuries  ago. 

The  evening  hour,  with  its  harmonies  of  ruddy  gold, 
finds  me  far  from  the  house  where  I  have  my  lodging. 
I  am  in  the  quarter  of  the  King's  Palaces,  of  which 
nothing  remains  but  the  monstrous  foundation,  the 
steps  and  the  sculptured  pavement.  A  death-like 
silence  reigns,  unbroken  by  the  cry  of  insect  or  of 
bird.  Here  I  rest  at  the  edge  of  the  gigantic  tank, 
walled  in  with  thick  granite  blocks,  that  was  the 
bath  of  the  royal  elephants. 

This  lily-covered  expanse  of  slumbering  water 
makes  a  clearing  amongst  the  high  trees,  and  lightens 
the  feeling  of  oppression  caused  by  the  overhanging 
branches ;  nevertheless  the  air  is  still  heavy  and 
motionless.  Bubbles  of  air  continually  make  eddies 
on  the  surface  of  the  treacherous  water — bubbles 
breathed  out  by  crocodiles  who  bask  in  the  warm 
mud,  in  which  silent  worlds  of  tortoises  and  snakes 
reside. 

There  are  no  climbing  plants  here,  and  as  no  bushes 
mask  the  view,  it  is  possible  to  see  the  boundaries 
of  this  kingdom  of  ruins  which  extends  around  us. 
Towards  the  west  a  fire  seems  to  spring  from  the 
level  of  the  ground  and  scatters  its  dazzling  rays 
among  the  trees.  It  is  the  setting  of  the  sun,  which 


THE  ROCK  TEMPLE  19 

in  these  latitudes  is  immediately  succeeded  by  night- 
fall. 

I  must  hasten  further  whilst  there  is  light,  and  as 
this  is  my  last  evening,  make  my  walk  as  long  as 
possible. 

The  secret  charm  of  the  new  land  that  I  tread  in 
the  growing  dimness  lies  in  the  delicate,  dry,  and 
sandy  soil  covered  by  short,  fine  grasses  as  were  the 
woods  my  childhood  knew,  and  the  impression  of 
my  native  land  is  heightened  by  the  tracks  traced 
by  the  shepherds  and  their  flocks.  There  are  trees, 
too,  which  have  a  sober  little  foliage,  netted  with 
gray  veins  like  our  evergreen  oaks,  and  were  it  not 
for  the  great  red  lilies  and  bouvardias  which  now 
and  then  take  me  by  surprise,  it  would  indeed  be 
like  home,  for  the  same  pastoral  calm  and  gentle 
melancholy  reign  here  as  there. 

But  these  great  stones  and  ruins  are  always  here 
to  disturb  my  dream,  and  statues  with  mysterious 
faces  haunt  the  place.  The  dimness  increases,  and 
in  the  dusk  the  outlines  of  lonely  Buddhas,  sitting  and 
smiling  in  vacancy,  are  almost  terrifying. 

I  make  my  way  back  in  the  dusk  by  another  road 
which  has  an  even  sweeter  sadness,  and  a  more 
marked  resemblance  to  my  native  land.  Though 
still  conscious,  in  a  latent  manner,  perhaps,  of  the 
Indian  forest  which  surrounded  me  on  all  sides,  I 
felt  myself  back  among  the  oak  woods  of  Saintonge  or 
of  Aunis,  and  walked  forward  confidently.  Believing 
myself  quite  alone,  a  sudden  tremor  ran  through  me 
when  I  saw  a  huge,  black  man,  whose  head  was  bent 
sideways,  and  whose  hands  were  on  his  hips,  near 
by  my  side — a  granite  Buddha  who  had  been  there 
for  two  thousand  years. 

Drawing  closer,  one  can  see,  even  in  the  fading 
light,  his  lowered  eyelids  and  his  eternal  smile. 

A  spiritual  and  holy  calm  seems  to  diffuse  itself 
now  that  the  moon  is  shining  and  the  towers  of  the 
great  temple  train  their  black  shadows  over  the  jungle. 


20  THE  ROCK  TEMPLE 

The  moonbeams  have  a  bluish  tinge,  and  the  light 
of  Eden  seems  to  illuminate  the  first  and  only  night 
that  I  shall  spend  amongst  these  woods. 

The  splendour  of  the  clearness  of  our  warm  July 
nights  comes  back  to  me,  but  here  there  is  something 
different,  something  more  lasting,  something  that  tells 
of  a  perpetual  and  never-ending  summer. 

Between  the  trees  the  sky  is  visible,  and  the  fine 
lawns,  traversed  by  little  paths,  are  illuminated  with 
a  strange  radiance.  Silence  seems  gradually  to 
deepen  as  I  penetrate  the  woods,  in  spite  of  the  night 
music  of  the  insects,  which  vibrates  madly  around  me. 

Alone  I  wend  my  way  towards  the  shadows  cast 
by  the  great  dagabas  of  which  the  Indians  are  afraid  ; 
whither  my  guide,  thinking  of  the  spectres  of  kings 
and  priests,  has  not  chosen  to  follow  me. 

On  nearing  one  of  the  temples  I  instinctively  choose 
the  side  lit  by  the  moon,  in  order  to  reach  the  gigantic 
dagaba.  No  doubt  this  open  space,  which  served  as  a 
peristyle,  is  haunted  by  spectres.  Suddenly  my  foot- 
steps resound  on  hollowed  pavements  and  I  am  in  the 
midst  of  broken  altars  and  mutilated  images  bathed 
in  a  bluish  glow.  The  vast  stillness  of  Anuradhapura 
seems  yet  more  strange,  and  I  stop  short  like  some 
frightened  native  ;  indeed,  I  dare  not  walk  round  the 
dagaba,  or  cross  that  patch  of  noisome  shadow. 

Where  are  the  kings  and  priests  who  built  this 
monstrous  temple  ?  Do  they  dwell  in  Nirvana  or  in 
nothingness,  and  how  can  their  spirits  ever  return 
from  such  far-distant  realms  ? 

Their  Buddhist  faith,  too,  seems  a  dead  and  perished 
thing,  buried  under  these  ruins  and  covered  by  the 
dust  of  the  ancient  idols. 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  MAHARAJAH 
OF  TRAVANCORE 


21 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    HOME    OF   THE    MAHARAJAH 
OF  TRAVANCORE 

2Qth  December 

IT  is  the  evening  hour,  and  a  period  of  calm  and 
freshness  follows  the  hasty  sunset.  It  is  but  a  few 
moments  since  I  reached  Palancota,  an  unknown 
village  where  I  am  to  pass  the  night.  Here,  for  the 
first  time,  I  feel  how  far  from  home  I  am,  amidst  these 
trees  and  the  silence  that  spreads  over  the  declining 
day. 

I  made  halt  for  a  week  in  the  damp,  green  island  of 
Ceylon,  to  which  the  French  steamer  had  brought 
me  ;  then  last  night  I  crossed  the  ever-raging  Gulf  of 
Manar  in  a  poor  coasting  vessel ;  since  then  I  have 
travelled  all  day  to  this  village,  where  I  am  met  by  an 
envoy  of  His  Highness  the  Maharajah  of  Travancore, 
who  quarters  me  in  a  little  white  house  standing 
amidst  shady  trees. 

To-morrow  I  set  out  on  my  journey  in  an  Indian 
zebu  cart  for  the  land  of  Travancore,  where  my 
wanderings  are  to  commence.  This  land  is  also  styled 
"  The  Land  of  Charity,"  and  is,  I  am  told,  a  place  of 
blissful  peace,  cut  off  from  the  mad  turmoil  of  our  age, 
an  isolated  country  sheltered  by  spreading  palms. 

It  is  quite  night  now,  an  exquisite  summer  night ; 
but  there  is  no  moon.  A  carriage  takes  me  to  see  a 
Brahmin  temple,  one  of  the  largest  in  the  south,  that 
has  been  illuminated  for  me.  This  temple  is  situated 
in  a  neighbouring  town  named  Tinnevelli. 

We  trot  easily  along  a  flat  road,  under  the  mys- 

23 


24  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

terious  interlacings  of  overhanging  trees ;  trailing 
roots  hang  from  the  extended  branches,  myriads  of 
trailing  roots  which  look  like  tresses  of  long  hair. 
Thousands  of  stars  sparkle  through  the  smallest  gap 
among  the  branches,  whilst  under  the  leaves  crowds 
of  fireflies  flit  like  sparks  of  flame.  All  these  scintilla- 
tions intermingle,  so  that  in  our  rapid  course  we  do 
not  know  which  are  stars  and  which  are  fireflies. 

It  is  a  joy  to  breathe  the  dry  and  healthful  air  after 
the  everlasting  dampness  of  Ceylon ;  it  seems  a 
summer  night  of  France,  and  crickets  sing  everywhere 
as  they  do  in  June  with  us.  Strange  wayfarers  pass 
along  the  roads,  bronze  figures  draped  in  white  muslin, 
whose  naked  feet  pass  noiselessly  over  the  ground. 
Occasionally  the  sound  of  a  distant  tom-tom  is  heard, 
or  a  few  groaning  notes  of  the  bagpipes  tell  us  of 
India,  and  of  Brahma,  and  how  far  we  are  from  home. 
White  houses  with  verandas  commence  to  loom 
among  the  shady  trees  that  line  both  sides  of  the  road. 
They  are  the  houses  of  Tinnevelli,  the  town  towards 
which  we  journey.  At  last,  at  the  end  of  an  avenue 
of  palms,  whose  black  heads  are  balanced  on  their 
frail  stalks,  a  strange  and  striking  outline  is  visible, 
the  great  temple.  A  stranger  might  recognize  it,  for 
its  shape  has  been  vaguely  impressed  on  us  by  many 
pictures,  but  I  did  not  expect  to  see  it  so  large,  nor 
that  tower  so  high  in  the  evening  sky.  It  is  a  mon- 
strous pylone,  in  all  probability  graven  with  images 
of  intertwining  forms  of  gods,  whose  roof,  bristling 
with  monsters,  casts  its  dark  profile  on  the  starry 
firmament. 

Our  carriage  soon  passes  under  a  granite  archway 
framed  by  square  columns  of  primitive  style.  Five 
ramparts  once  passed,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  square 
inclosure  open  to  the  shining  stars.  This  I  am  not 
allowed  to  cross.  The  pylone,  however,  rises  quite 
closely  before  us  ;  its  extraordinary  proportions  seem 
to  overhang  and  dwarf  the  doorway  which  I  may  not 
tread,  although  it  stands  widely  open.  With  my 
eyes  I  seek  to  penetrate  the  dim  obscurities  of  the 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         25 

sacred  temple  whose  infinite  recesses  are  outlined  by 
many  twinkling  and  mysterious  lamps. 

I  am  allowed  to  look  from  here,  but  I  must  not 
approach  or  gaze  too  long.  Under  the  columns  of  the 
peristyle  that  adjoins  each  side  of  the  yawning  entry, 
vendors  of  flowers,  wreaths,  and  sacred  cakes  made 
for  the  gods  are  stationed,  their  stalls  illuminated  by 
little,  flickering  lamps.  These  dancing  flames  only 
light  up  the  groups  of  men  and  the  worn  bases  of  the 
columns,  which  were  once  carved  with  monsters  and 
with  fantastic  groups.  The  motionless  nude  forms  of 
tawny  merchants  which  rest  against  the  ruddy 
granites  might  be  taken  for  those  of  the  gods  them- 
selves ;  their  eyes  glitter  in  the  dim  light,  whilst  their 
long  hair  falls  in  a  black  flood  upon  their  shoulders. 
Above  them  gloom  reigns  supreme  amongst  the  dim 
outlines  of  columns  and  vaulted  arches. 

The  temple  seems  to  my  stealthy  gaze  to  be  of  in- 
finite extent.  Endless  rows  of  columns  rise  from  an 
obscurity  which  the  many-lighted  lamps  are  power- 
less to  dispel.  The  air  is  filled  with  sounds  of  prayer 
and  chanted  psalms,  while  white-robed  forms  flit 
dimly  across  the  dark  background. 

The  framework  of  the  doorway  through  which  I 
look,  but  through  which  I  must  not  pass,  is  of  a 
strange  and  unknown  order  of  architecture.  Not- 
withstanding that  its  proportions  are  those  of  a 
cathedral  door,  it  has  a  low  and  furtive  look,  as  if 
crushed  by  the  weight  of  the  monstrous  pylone  that 
overhangs  it ;  and  the  colossal  pyramid  of  gods 
towering  to  the  stars  makes  it  seem  the  entrance  of  a 
mysterious  subterranean  cavern. 

This  is  my  first  visit  to  a  Brahmin  temple,  but  I 
immediately  receive  a  hostile  impression,  a  dismal 
feeling  of  dread  and  heathenish  idolatry.  I  had  not 
expected  this,  nor  yet  that  I  should  have  been  refused 
admission.  How  childish  were  the  hopes  that  I  had 
cherished,  I  who  had  hoped  to  find  some  ray  of  light 
in  the  religion  of  our  Indian  ancestors ! 

Oh  !  for  the  sweet,  deceptive  peace  of  our  Christian 


26  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

churches  which  are  open  to  all,  and  kind  even  to  those 
who  can  believe  no  longer.  .  .  . 

They  tell  me  that  there  are  temples  in  other  parts 
of  India  which  are  less  sullen,  and  into  which  I  may 
be  allowed  to  enter,  but  it  is  hinted  that  I  had  better 
retire  now,  if  I  do  not  wish  to  be  indiscreet.  Should 
I  desire  it,  our  carriage  may  drive  round  the  huge 
temple. 

The  inclosure  is  square  and  large  enough  to  contain 
a  town.  In  the  middle  of  each  of  the  four  blank  walls 
a  huge  pylone  rises,  under  which  a  door  has  been 
hollowed  out,  but,  except  for  this,  these  walls  are  as 
gloomy  as  those  of  a  citadel. 

Our  carriage  pursues  its  lonely  road  through  the 
dim  silence  ;  even  the  place  we  are  in  is  sacred  and 
must  not  be  trod  by  common  men.  We  pass  dark 
masses,  which  look  like  pedestals  of  idols  supported 
on  gigantic  wheels  and  which  seem  to  have  been  cast 
up  here  by  chance.  These  are  the  chariots  in  which 
the  gods  are  placed  on  feast  days,  when  thousands  of 
frenzied  arms  push  them  along  the  ground  ;  but  to- 
night they  slumber  with  their  wheels  embedded  in  the 
ruts  like  dead  things. 

As  we  retrace  our  way  under  the  avenues  of  palms 
whose  dark  heads  are  bent  in  all  directions,  a  clamour 
of  religious  frenzy  breaks  over  us,  and  the  hollow 
sound  of  tom-toms  fills  the  serene  night  air  ;  horns 
bray  like  monsters,  and  barbarous  noises  fill  us  with  a 
sense  of  terror. 


i 
2lst  December 

I  am  still  in  the  village  of  Palancota.  During  the 
whole  night  bronzed  serving-men  have  waved  great 
fans  in  the  air  to  drive  mosquitoes  and  winged  night- 
moths  away.  The  doors  and  windows  of  the  little 
native  house  have  remained  open  during  the  night, 
so  that  the  first  gay  beams  of  the  dawning  day  find 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         27 

ready  access,  and  I  awake  amidst  the  splendour  of  the 
rising  sun. 

The  veranda,  still  fresh  with  dew,  offers  an  ex- 
quisite shelter,  for  it  is  snowy  with  whitewash,  and 
the  thick-set  irregular  pillars  are  covered  with  jas- 
mines. 

A  calm,  pastoral  country  extends  around  me, 
bathed  in  a  blissful  morning  charm  ;  the  gentle  glow 
of  one  of  our  September  mornings  shines  on  a  land 
that  has  been  parched  by  autumn  droughts.  There 
are  no  great  palms  here,  nor  any  of  the  rank  vegeta- 
tion of  Ceylon,  nothing  but  small  trees  with  modest 
leaves,  like  those  of  our  woods.  Fields  that  have  been 
reaped,  orchards,  pleasant,  well-kept  lanes  wandering 
through  the  short  grass,  and  further  off,  amidst  the 
branches,  little  walls  and  carefully  whitewashed 
houses.  I  look  with  astonishment  on  sights  almost 
like  those  familiar  to  my  childhood. 

There  are  even  sparrows,  common  sparrows  just 
like  those  which  nest  among  our  roofs  ;  but  they  are 
bolder,  for,  like  all  Indian  living  things,  they  have  a 
confidence  in  man  to  which  I  am  not  accustomed. 

Parts  of  this  land  closely  resemble  my  own,  and  call 
back  the  charm  of  summer's  declining  days,  though 
it  is  winter  here. 

A  gentle  sense  of  melancholy  steals  over  me,  and 
without,  however,  being  wholly  able  to  forget  that  I 
am  in  this  far-off  land  of  India,  I  dream  that  I  am 
once  more  in  my  native  land.  These  flat  plains, 
whitewashed  walls,  and  ripening  harvests  call  to  my 
mind  the  countrysides  of  Aunis  and  Saintonge,  and 
the  peaceful  dwellings  of  the  Isle  of  Oberon  nestled 
amid  the  glories  of  their  ripening  vines. 

There  are,  however,  many  things  to  dispel  my 
dreams  :  a  naked  wayfarer  brushes  silently  through 
the  grass,  turning  his  dusky  countenance  to  me  ;  a 
humming  bird  that  has  the  changing  hues  of  a  pre- 
cious stone  settles  among  the  sparrows ;  and  a  little 
girl  of  six,  who  has  been  sent  with  a  message  to  me 
from  the  village,  has  strangely  lengthened  eyes,  and 


28  THE  HOME  OF   THE 

pins  threaded  with  blood-coloured  rubies  are  passed 
through  her  quivering  nostrils. 

Something  strange  and  unhomely  is  seen  in  the 
distance  among  the  trees,  the  angle  of  a  pylone,  the 
corner  of  a  pyramid  of  gods  and  monsters  springing 
from  a  temple  of  Vishnu  hidden  in  the  woods. 

In  spite  of  the  shade  afforded  by  the  trees,  the  mid- 
day sun  beats  fiercely  on  the  little  whitewashed 
houses.  A  brightness,  which  eclipses  that  of  our 
most  gorgeous  September  day,  hovers  over  the 
neighbouring  orchards  and  the  drooping  grass.  No 
one  passes  along  the  lanes,  and  everything  is  still. 
The  great  fans  slumber  too,  for  their  attendants  have 
gone  to  rest.  All  is  silent  and  motionless,  only  the 
crows  keep  wakeful.  They  enter  the  room  and 
wander  round  me.  Their  hopping  noises  and  the 
silky  swish  of  their  wings  are  the  only  sounds  that 
break  the  torpor  that  reigns  everywhere. 

The  thought  comes  to  me  that  our  Christmas  is 
close  at  hand,  and  this  never-changing  summer  seems 
to  fill  me  with  an  indescribable  sadness. 

The  carriages  which  are  to  take  us  on  our  two  days' 
journey  to  the  wished-for  land  of  Travancore  make 
their  appearance  one  after  the  other :  two  native 
chariots  drawn  by  trotting  bulls  of  the  shape  of  long 
sarcophagi,  into  which  one  slides  from  the  back,  and 
in  which  it  is  impossible  to  sit  upright.  The  one  pro- 
vided for  me  is  drawn  by  a  pair  of  white  cattle,  whose 
horns  are  painted  blue  ;  that  of  my  servants  has 
brown  animals  with  copper-encircled  horns.  Mean- 
while, till  the  sun  is  less  powerful,  the  four  peaceful, 
indolent,  and  gentle  zebus  lie  on  the  grass  and  wait. 


ii 

We  start  at  three,  under  the  still  fierce  rays  of  the 
sun.  My  chariot  is  provided  with  mats  and  carpets, 
but  is  too  low  to  allow  me  to  sit  upon  them,  so  that  I 
have  to  lie  down,  like  a  sick  man  in  an  ambulance, 
whilst  my  zebus  at  once  fall  into  the  hobbling  trot 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         29 

which  must  be  the  accompaniment  of  my  slumbers 
for  the  next  two  days. 

We  change  our  teams  of  men  and  cattle  frequently, 
for  relays  are  placed  along  this  road,  which  is  the  sole 
means  of  communication  in  the  south  between  eastern 
India  and  Travancore.  Up  till  now  the  happy 
"  Land  of  Charity  "  has  no  railroad  to  draw  away  its 
riches  ;  on  the  northern  side  the  communication  with 
the  little  State  of  Cochin  is  by  means  of  boats,  which 
thread  a  series  of  canals  and  lakes,  but  intercourse 
from  other  sources  is  barred  by  the  natural  defences 
of  this  fortunate  land. 

There  are  no  ports  on  the  western  coast,  nothing 
but  inaccessible  shores  on  which  great  breakers  beat. 
The  Great  Central  Chain  of  the  Ghauts  keeps  watch 
on  the  east,  with  its  rugged  peaks  and  tiger-swarming 
forests. 

My  good  cattle  trot  or  gallop  merrily  along.  Now 
that  we  have  passed  the  village,  the  long,  endless  road 
extends  before  us,  stretching  its  long,  blood-coloured 
monotony  between  two  rows  of  great  trees  that  look 
like  ash  or  walnut.  The  walnuts  are  young  banyan 
trees,  which  in  time  will  grow  to  be  giants  ;  hair-like 
roots  have  already  commenced  to  grow  here  and 
there,  and  drooping  from  the  branches  to  the  ground, 
seek  the  earth  so  that  they  may  form  new  stems. 
Vast  lonely  plains,  thinly  scattered  with  palms, 
appear  between  the  trees. 

Some  holes  are  made  in  the  sides  of  the  cart  to  give 
air  and  light ;  and  at  the  back  there  is  that  tiny 
round  door  through  which  I  had  to  crawl  with  lowered 
head. 

The  chariot  for  the  luggage  and  the  servants 
follows  closely  in  the  wake,  and  the  zebus  with  their 
good-natured  long  faces  are  my  nearest  neighbours  ; 
these  gentle,  ambling  cattle,  driven  by  a  single  rein 
threaded  through  their  nostrils,  almost  touch  my  feet 
as  I  lie  extended  on  my  back,  and  their  horns  are  bent 
backwards  as  if  they  feared  to  do  any  one  an  un- 
willing injury.  The  bronze-hued  driver  is  quite 


30  THE  HOME   OF  THE 

naked,  and  balances  himself  on  the  pole  with  a 
marvellous  alertness,  sitting  cross-legged,  with  his 
hands  placed  upon  his  knees  ;  he  lashes  his  cattle 
with  a  thin  reed  or  urges  them  on  by  making  a  noise 
like  that  of  an  angry  monkey. 

The  desert  wastes  extend  on  either  hand,  becoming 
more  awe-inspiring  as  we  proceed  further.  Some- 
times there  are  a  few  poor  rice  or  cotton  fields  in  the 
sad  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

The  outlines  of  the  Ghauts  are  seen  on  the  horizon, 
walling  in  the  land  of  Travancore.  We  must  cross 
them  to-night  by  their  only  pass. 

I  am  astonished  to  see  these  arid  plains,  on  which 
grass  even  will  not  grow,  after  the  luxuriant  vegeta- 
tion and  the  damp  atmosphere  of  Ceylon.  Some  gray 
stalked  palms  which  hardly  seem  to  belong  to  the 
plant  kingdom  are  dotted  here  and  there,  smooth  and 
straight  as  tall  masts.  Swollen  at  the  base,  they 
taper  towards  the  summit,  which  bears  a  little  bunch 
of  rigid  fans  posed  on  the  stem  whose  length  is  out  of 
all  proportion  to  it.  These  stiff  outlines  are  repeated 
endlessly  on  both  sides  of  the  road  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach. 

There  are  no  passengers  on  the  well-kept  road,  with 
its  bordered  sides  of  banyan  trees,  and  it  might  be 
thought  to  lead  to  nowhere.  Gradually  the  ex- 
hausting heat  and  the  rhythmic  sequence  of  repeated 
jolts  causes  a  vague  drowsiness  in  which  my  thoughts 
commence  to  wander. 

Towards  five  o'clock  we  pass  four  grotesque  way- 
farers, an  important  event  to  sleep-laden  eyes  that 
have  become  accustomed  to  the  deserted  road  ;  four 
tall,  scantily-clothed  men,  who  march  along  with  rapid 
footsteps.  They  wear  large,  red  turbans,  and  their 
loins  are  swathed  by  red  and  white  striped  cloths. 

Where  can  these  gorgeously-apparelled  men  be 
going  in  such  haste,  and  what  may  they  seek  in  the 
midst  of  the  desert  ? 

Gradually  I  lose  consciousness,  and  slumber  rivets 
me  to  my  stifling  couch. 


MAHARAJAH  OF   TRAVANCORE         31 

I  awake  an  hour  later ;  twilight  has  come  and  I 
can  but  catch  one  last  impression  from  the  dying  day. 

The  mountain  chain  has  suddenly  come  closer,  as  if 
it  had  made  a  leap  of  some  three  miles,  and  now  shuts 
out  the  eastern  plains.  Its  deep,  purple  contours  are 
outlined  with  incredible  clearness  against  the  rosy 
background  that  the  setting  sun  has  left ;  the  granite 
peaks  are  truly  Indian  in  character,  and  take  shapes 
that  are  unseen  elsewhere,  apeing  the  forms  of  pyra- 
mids, towers,  and  pagoda  roofs.  Thin,  reedy  palms, 
and  fierce-looking  aloes  are  the  only  plants  that  grow 
here  ;  their  erect  forms  stand  out  sharply  against  the 
declining  light,  and  the  pale  clearness  of  the  sky  is 
pierced  by  the  outlines  of  their  black  leaves. 

Suddenly  darkness  comes,  and  I  feel  a  shade  of 
melancholy,  for  the  night  will  be  moonless. 

Till  morning  dawns  I  am  jolted  in  my  narrow 
sarcophagus,  and  I  only  receive  a  whirl  of  confused 
impressions.  Furious  cries,  the  jangling  of  bells  as  we 
pass  other  zebu  wagons  that  unwillingly  give  place 
to  us  ;  stoppages  to  change  our  cattle  and  our  men 
in  dimly  seen  roadside  villages  ;  villages  inhabited 
by  sleeping  Brahmins,  who  have  placed  little  lighted 
lamps  filled  with  coco-nut  oil  in  the  niches  of  the  walls 
to  frighten  away  the  evil  spirit  of  the  night. 


22nd  December 

Next  morning  at  daybreak  I  am  aroused  with 
many  salutes,  for  we  have  reached  the  village  of 
Nagercoil,  where  I  am  to  repose  till  sunset.  The 
mountain  chain  that  I  had  seen  before  me  yesterday 
outlined  on  the  evening  red,  is  now  behind  me,  bathed 
in  the  rosy  pallor  of  the  dawning  day  ;  we  have  crossed 
it  during  the  night,  and  are  now  in  Travancore.  The 
little  veranda-fronted  house  at  which  my  zebus  stop 
is  the  hotel,  and  the  white-robed  Indian  who  salutes 
with  both  his  hands  pressed  on  his  forehead  is  the 
hotel-keeper  who  has  had  orders  to  await  me  and  to 
reserve  the  whole  house  for  me. 


32  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

Like  those  of  every  Indian  village,  this  "  Travellers' 
Rest  "  consists  of  three  or  four  whitewashed  rooms  on 
the  ground  floor,  very  clean,  almost  bare,  with  couches 
of  rattan  cane  on  which  to  sleep. 

The  roof,  which  is  upheld  by  thick  columns,  over- 
laps the  sides  of  the  house,  so  as  to  give  shelter  from 
the  rays  of  the  burning  sun. 

I  bathe  and  then  breakfast  under  fans  waved  by 
listless  serving-men.  Then  I  am  only  conscious  of  the 
melancholy  sadness  of  a  darkened  room,  the  suave 
silence  and  the  visits  of  the  crows,  who  come  and  hop 
about  the  floor  of  my  room. 

At  two  o'clock  a  dispatch  comes  from  the  Dewan 
(the  minister  of  the  Maharajah),  stating  that  a 
carriage  drawn  by  horses  has  been  sent  for  me  to  a 
village  called  Neyzetavaray,  in  readiness  to  start  at 
eleven  o'clock  at  night. 

So  I  decide  to  set  out  at  once,  instead  of  waiting  as 
usual  for  sunset,  in  order  that  I  may  reach  Neyzet- 
avaray to-night,  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  in  the 
carriage. 

Our  departure  takes  place  under  a  dazzling  white 
light  and  the  repeated  two-handed  salutes  of  the  inn- 
keeper ;  the  bronzed  waiting-men  stand  round  my 
carriage  in  attitudes  of  silent  appeal,  nor  does  the 
nearly  naked  old  woman,  whose  function  is  to  fill  the 
bath,  allow  her  presence  to  be  forgotten.  I  give  some 
little  coins  of  Travancore  silver  money  to  all  these 
people,  little  thick  coins  like  shining  grains  of  silver, 
and  then  our  zebus  trot  out  briskly  into  the  stifling 
heat. 

The  land  gradually  becomes  more  leafy,  soon  equal- 
ling the  magnificence  of  Ceylon,  and  the  jungle  is  full 
of  flowering  shrubs.  The  tall  tufted  palms  that  but 
yesterday  looked  so  yellow  and  dried  up,  are  now 
luxuriant  bouquets  of  fans  ;  coco-nuts  with  their  great 
green  feathers  reappear  in  clumps,  and  from  the 
banyans  of  the  roadside,  that  form  an  archway  over 
our  heads,  trailing  roots  descend  in  hairy  masses  to 
the  ground.  The  country  seems  to  be  but  a  wilder- 


MAHARAJAH  OP   TRAVANCORE         33 

ness  of  trees,  an  inextricable  green  entanglement. 
Just  now  we  meet  many  people  travelling  along  the 
shady  road  ;  folk  in  zebu  carts  like  our  own,  and 
shepherds  leading  their  flocks  ;  processions  of  women 
too,  countless  groups  of  women  carrying  burdens  on 
their  heads  in  grass-woven  baskets. 

Here  and  there  we  pass  little  granite  temples,  roofed 
with  flat  stones,  and  temples  of  uncertain  age  that 
look  like  miniature  replicas  of  those  of  ancient  Egypt ; 
or,  maybe,  under  some  huge  banyan,  which  has 
become  sacred  in  virtue  of  its  great  age,  the  tomb  of 
a  holy  fakir,  garlanded  with  fresh  flowers,  or  a  statue 
of  the  elephant-headed  god  Ganesa,  that  some  pious 
hand  has  adorned  with  a  necklace  made  of  interwoven 
pinks  and  roses. 

It  is  a  somewhat  unexpected  surprise  that  though 
most  of  the  men  are  handsome,  the  women  we  meet  in 
such  numbers  are  not  beautiful ;  the  bronze  colour 
seems  to  harmonize  better  with  the  faces  of  the  men, 
whose  moustaches,  too,  hide  the  lips,  which  in  the 
women  are  somewhat  noticeably  thick.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  very  young  ones,  who  have  the  pure 
outlines  of  a  Tanagra  figure,  nearly  all  have  prema- 
turely deformed  busts,  not  even  hid  by  drapery. 
They  wear  a  golden  ring  in  each  nostril,  and  the  ear 
lobes  are  so  much  lengthened  by  weighty  rings,  that 
they  hang  down  to  the  shoulders  of  the  old  people. 
It  is  true  that  these  are  but  the  wives  of  pariahs,  for 
those  of  the  higher  caste,  that  we  have  not  yet  seen, 
do  not  travel  along  the  roads  carrying  burdens. 

From  time  to  time  we  pass  tall,  solid  tables  of 
granite,  which  have  been  thoughtfully  provided  so 
that  these  women  may  relieve  themselves  of  their 
burdens,  and  replace  them  on  their  heads  without  the 
trouble  of  stooping  down. 

A  charming  tranquillity  hovers  over  the  land,  and 
the  scattered  villages  embowered  in  greenery  are 
sunk  in  a  calm  like  that  of  paradise. 

Under  a  shady  banyan  tree,  near  which  an  old  idol 
of  Siva  stands,  I  see  a  white-bearded  man  of  Hebraic 


34  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

cast  of  countenance,  dressed  in  a  violet-coloured  robe, 
peacefully  reclining  with  a  book  in  his  hands  ;  it  is  a 
bishop — a  Syrian  bishop  ;  surely  a  strange  and  un- 
expected encounter  in  this  country  of  the  mysterious 
rites  of  Brahma. 

On  reflection,  however,  there  is  nothing  unusual  in 
it.  I  knew  that  the  Maharajah  of  Travancore  had 
about  five  hundred  thousand  Christians  among  his 
subjects,  Christians  whose  ancestors  had  churches 
here  when  Europe  was  still  under  pagan  rule.  These 
claim  that  they  are  the  descendants  of  St.  Thomas, 
who  came  to  India  about  the  middle  of  the  first 
century.  More  probably  they  are  Nestorians  who 
arrived  later  from  Syria,  a  land  that  still  continues  to 
send  them  priests.  In  any  case,  they  come  of  an  old 
and  venerable  stock,  of  that  there  can  be  no  question. 
Jews,  who  emigrated  after  the  second  destruction  of 
the  temple  of  Jerusalem,  are  also  found  in  the  more 
northern  parts  of  the  kingdom.  As  in  the  case  of  the 
Christians,  no  one  has  ever  disturbed  them,  for  religious 
tolerance  has  always  existed  here,  and  in  no  instance 
has  human  blood  been  shed  in  this  "  Land  of  Charity." 

Our  zebus  still  maintain  their  constant  trot.  To- 
wards evening  the  sun  becomes  overcast,  and,  as  in 
Ceylon,  a  tropical  dampness  fills  the  air.  Cocoa 
palms — those  denizens  of  the  lands  of  hot  rains — 
become  more  predominant  now  that  we  have  entered 
the  infinite  expanse  of  feathered  palms  which  extends 
from  the  western  shores  to  the  coast  of  Malabar, 
plunging  hundreds  of  miles  in  an  everlasting  green 
light.  As  we  pass  at  the  foot  of  the  spurs  of  the 
Ghaut  Chain  our  outlook  is  hemmed  in  by  rocky 
peaks,  overhanging  forests,  and  masses  of  black  cloud. 

The  journey  had  already  lasted  some  four  hours 
when  the  sense  of  weariness,  aggravated  by  the 
cadenced  jolting  of  our  zebus,  became  so  intolerable 
that  I  had  to  slip  through  the  little  opening  at  the 
front  of  my  sarcophagus,  and  sit  for  a  while  on  the 
pole  in  the  pose  of  a  crouching  monkey  by  the  side 
of  my  driver.  The  daylight  has  waned  considerably, 


HINDOO  CHILD.    WITH  EAR-LOBES  LENGTHENED  BY  WEIGHTY 

RINGS. 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         35 

and  under  the  black  clouds  and  overhanging  palms 
it  is  almost  twilight.  The  green  tunnel  of  banyans 
extends  as  ever  in  front  of  us,  but  here  and  there 
fantastic  objects  are  seen  looming  from  the  woods 
through  the  evening  shadows.  They  resemble  huge, 
shapeless  animals ;  sometimes  they  are  scattered 
and  sometimes  in  flocks,  or  even  piled  on  one  another. 
These  strange  objects  consist  of  granite  blocks — 
blocks  which  have  the  soft  roundness  of  elephants 
and  the  bronze  colour  of  their  skin  ;  there  is  no  con- 
nection between  them,  and  they  look  as  if  they  had 
come  here  separately,  or  as  if  they  had  been  rolled  or 
thrown  here,  like  corpses  heaped  up  after  a  massacre. 
Now  the  larger  roots  and  branches  of  the  trees  take 
the  shape  of  elephants'  trunks  ;  indeed,  it  looks  as 
if  nature  had  had  some  vague  idea  of  this  particular 
animal  shape  in  all  her  creation,  as  if  the  first  thought 
of  the  elephantine  form  had  existed  here  from  the 
remotest  antiquity,  even  from  the  date  when  the 
first  unconscious  thought  had  fashioned  matter  with 
stone.  At  present  it  looks  as  if  elephants  or  the  em- 
bryos of  elephants  were  crowded  round  us,  and  the 
resemblances  are  even  more  striking  now  that  it  is 
quite  dim  in  the  woods  which  lie  about  us. 

It  is  eight  o'clock,  and  the  heavy  clouds  which 
threatened  us  have  cleared  off  without  leaving  a  trace ; 
the  sky  is  pure,  and  the  night  starry.  Crickets  and 
grasshoppers  chirp  madly,  and  all  the  branches  of  the 
trees  vibrate  with  insect  joy. 

A  confused  waving  of  torches  is  seen  in  front  of  us, 
and  we  behold  a  crowd  advancing  through  the  dusky 
foliage.  We  can  hear  the  sound  of  drums  and  cym- 
bals, and  a  chorus  of  human  voices  which  accompanies 
the  merry  procession  on  their  way  through  the 
avenues  of  palm  and  banyan. 

In  the  flickering  light  of  torches  we  see  some  twenty 
bare-chested  young  men,  who  carry  an  ornamented 
and  flower-decorated  palanquin  on  their  shoulders, 
in  which  reposes  one  of  their  fellows,  like  a  rajah  or 
some  god,  in  golden  crown  and  long  gilt  robe. 


36  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

It  is  a  marriage  procession,  and  this  is  the  bride- 
groom who  is  being  carried  by  his  friends  with  such 
religious  ceremony. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock,  as  I  was  lying  asleep  at 
the  bottom  of  the  cart,  one  of  the  little  loopholes  was 
opened,  and  a  letter,  sealed  with  the  arms  of  Tra van- 
core — two  elephants  and  a  seashell — was  handed  to 
me  by  the  light  from  the  lantern.  We  have  reached 
the  village  of  Neyzetavaray,  and  the  letter  is  from 
the  Dewan,  bidding  me  welcome  in  the  name  of  the 
sovereign,  and  telling  me  that  the  carriage  awaits  me. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  leave  the  Indian  cart,  to 
step  into  this  elegant  and  well-hung  carriage,  and  to 
set  forth  at  a  brisk  trot  with  these  two  splendid 
horses.  A  coachman  in  the  livery  of  the  Maharajah 
— a  long  robe  and  a  gilt  turban  that  shines  hazily 
through  the  gloom — is  on  the  box,  whilst  two  active 
footmen  are  stationed  on  the  step.  They  almost 
seem  to  have  wings  as  they  run  forward,  uttering 
fearful  cries  in  order  to  clear  the  way  of  the  zebu 
carts  which  are  now  far  more  plentiful.  It  gives  me 
an  intoxicating  sense  of  joy  to  move  along  so  easily 
and  so  quickly  through  the  calm  starry  night  past 
the  flying  palms,  after  having  endured  so  many  jolts 
in  my  narrow  box.  We  cleave  the  delicious  night 
air,  laden  with  the  perfume  of  flowers,  as  if  our  road 
lay  through  some  never-ending  fairy  garden. 

Again  we  see  the  red  light  of  torches  and  hear 
strains  of  music  ;  it  is  another  marriage  procession 
wandering  along  in  spite  of  the  late  and  silent  hour. 
This  time  the  bridegroom  is  on  horseback,  and  looks, 
with  his  golden  robe  hanging  over  his  horse's  crupper, 
like  some  king  of  the  Magi. 

Towards  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  great  dark 
palm  feathers  suddenly  cease  to  interlace  above  our 
heads  ;  there  is  a  clearing  in  the  forest  and  we  reach 
a  street.  But  this  street,  bathed  in  the  clear,  ashy 
gray  light  that  falls  in  tropical  regions  from  the  stars 
on  moonless  nights,  seems  to  be  plunged  in  profound 
slumber.  Houses,  which  must  be  white  in  the  day- 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         37 

light,  now  have  a  bluish  tinge.  All  have  a  story 
rising  above  their  verandas,  from  which  little  pointed 
festoons  or  lace-worked  windows  look  through  com- 
plicated columns.  Lower  down,  on  either  side  of  the 
closed  doors,  little  lamps  shine  like  glow-worms  ; 
these  tiny  flames  are  placed  in  niches  to  keep  watch 
against  the  intrusion  of  evil  spirits.  Many  animals 
crouch  motionlessly  on  the  steps,  as  closely  as  pos- 
sible to  the  human  habitation,  as  if  they,  too,  sought 
shelter  from  some  unknown  spell  ;  zebus,  sheep,  and 
goats,  who  do  not  even  wake  as  we  pass  by.  There 
is  no  other  sound  than  that  of  our  light  wheels  upon 
the  sanded  road,  and  all  these  houses,  slumbering 
cattle,  and  vague  shapes  of  things  unseen,  are  bathed 
in  an  uncertain  bluish  light,  that  looks  like  the  re- 
flection of  some  far-off  Bengal  fire. 

In  front  of  us  there  is  a  vast  inclosure  with  a  monu- 
mental door  surmounted  by  miradores  and  columns 
opening  on  to  an  avenue  which  rows  of  lanterns  show 
to  be  large  and  wide.  Tops  of  palm  trees  and  palace 
roofs  rise  above  this  wall,  and  quite  at  the  back  in 
the  direction  of  the  straight  avenue  the  gigantic 
towers  of  Brahmin  temples  are  seen.  We  are  evi- 
dently going  to  enter  the  inclosure,  for  this  must  be 
the  capital  of  Travancore,  the  true  Trivandrum,  the 
residence  of  the  Maharajah,  and  the  bluish  street, 
peopled  by  slumbering  animals,  can  only  have  been 
a  suburb. 

I  was  not  aware  that  only  Indians  of  high  caste 
are  permitted  to  inhabit  this  privileged  inclosure  till 
my  carriage  turned  sharply  to  the  right  from  the 
face  of  the  great  door  which  I  thought  we  should 
enter.  Plunging  once  more  into  long  shady  roads 
resembling  park  avenues,  we  stopped  at  length  be- 
fore a  splendid  dwelling  standing  in  a  garden,  which, 
alas  !  was  built  in  European  style. 

An  apartment  has  been  prepared  here  for  me,  and 
the  gracious  hospitality  of  the  Maharajah  awaits  me  in 
a  European  dwelling  that  seems  like  a  kindly  anomaly 
in  the  midst  of  old  and  marvellous  Hindustan. 


38  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

in 
23rd  December 

Towards  the  close  of  the  first  night  I  spent  in 
Trivandrum  a  terrible  noise  was  heard  on  my  roof  ; 
rushes  were  succeeded  by  sounds  of  battle,  and  in 
my  half-waking  starts  I  thought  I  could  recognize 
(not  without  some  dread,  seeing  that  my  rooms  were 
open),  the  springs  and  yells  of  some  members  of  the 
tiger  tribe  ;  but  the  calm  of  the  night  and  the  wood- 
work of  the  roof  must  have  exaggerated  the  noise,  for 
these  were  only  the  tiger-cats  of  the  neighbourhood, 
which  sleep  by  day  in  the  garden  trees  and  disport 
themselves  during  the  night,  boldly  invading  the 
dwellings  of  men. 

The  early  morning  at  Trivandrum  is  a  period  of 
unspeakable  sadness.  A  murmur  of  human  voices  is 
heard  before  the  wild  and  sad  dawn  breaks  through 
the  pallor  of  the  sky,  sounds  that  seemed  to  come 
from  a  distance,  from  the  inclosure  sacred  to  Brahma  ; 
a  cry  that  is  like  that  of  humanity  itself  waking  to 
new  tortures,  and  ever  oppressed  by  thoughts  of 
death.  The  birds  then  make  their  homage  to  the 
returning  sun,  but  their  morning  serenade  has  not 
the  charming  gaiety  of  those  that  sing  in  our  meadows 
in  the  springtime.  Here  the  twitterings  of  the 
smaller  birds  are  drowned  by  the  mocking  voices  of 
parakeets,  and  the  funereal  croakings  of  the  crows. 
First,  one  or  two  isolated  croaks  are  given  as  a 
signal,  then  a  hundred  and  a  thousand  join  in  fearful 
concert  to  celebrate  the  glories  of  death  and  putre- 
faction. Crows  are  everywhere  ;  the  whole  of  India 
is  infested  with  them,  and  even  here,  in  Travancore, 
the  land  of  peace  and  enchantment,  their  cries  are 
heard  directly  the  day  breaks  ;  their  voices  fill  the 
vaulted  arches  of  the  palms,  and  serve  to  dim  the 
joy  of  all  that  lives  and  wakes  under  the  glorious 
foliage.  They  say  "  Here  we  watch,  we  who  wait 
for  the  death  of  all  that  lives.  Our  prey  is  certain 
and  everything  will  belong  to  us." 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE       39 

After  a  while  the  cawing  ceases,  and  the  birds  dis- 
perse. Once  more  the  far-off  rumour  of  men's  voices 
is  heard,  so  deep  and  powerful  that  one  feels  that 
there  are  thousands  of  these  Brahmins  assembled  in 
the  great  sanctuary  calling  on  their  God.  A  con- 
fused noise  of  tambourines,  cymbals,  and  sacred 
shells  comes  from  all  points  of  the  forest  of  palms  in 
which  Trivandrum  is  situated,  telling  of  the  morning 
adoration  in  little  temples  scattered  amongst  the 
woods. 

At  last  the  sun  appears,  and  the  dwelling-houses, 
which  are  either  entirely  open,  or  but  shut  off  from 
the  darkness  by  light  blinds,  are  at  once  flooded 
with  its  rays.  Now  all  the  melancholy  of  daybreak 
vanishes  in  this  exquisite  hour  of  splendid  bright- 
ness. I  descend  to  the  garden,  a  sort  of  clearing  in 
the  midst  of  the  palm  forest,  where  there  are  lawns 
and  trees  covered  with  rose-coloured  flowers  ;  ferns 
and  plants  loving  a  moist  heat  grow  in  great  luxuri- 
ance, and  those  wonderous-foliaged  Indian  plant, 
that  are  tinged  like  flowers  with  dull  red,  violets 
pale  carmine,  or  striped  with  white,  like  the  veinings 
of  a  reptile's  back,  or  spotted  with  eyes  like  those  of 
a  butterfly's  wings. 

Contrary  to  the  custom  which  obtains  with  us, 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  time  when  a  trace 
of  freshness  still  lingers  among  the  green  avenues,  is 
the  ceremonial  visiting  hour  of  Trivandrum  ;  and  I 
am  informed  that  to-morrow  morning  at  that  hour 
I  shall  be  conducted  through  the  sacred  precincts 
and  presented  to  the  Prince.  As  midday  approaches 
all  signs  of  life  cease  ;  for  in  spite  of  the  shade  afforded 
by  the  palms,  the  vertical  rays  of  the  sun  plunge 
everything  into  somnolence  and  torpor  ;  even  the 
crows  are  silently  seated  on  the  ground  under  the 
shelter  of  the  shady  trees. 

The  road  that  I  can  see  from  my  veranda,  dis- 
appearing into  the  green  twilight,  becomes  deserted. 
There  are  still  a  few  passers-by,  men  and  women 
dressed  in  scarlet  loin-cloths,  whose  deeply  bronzed 


40  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

chests  shine  with  coppery-coloured  reflections  ;  these 
reddish  figures  move  noiselessly  on  naked  feet  along 
the  blood-coloured  road,  whose  tone  is  heightened  by 
the  vividly  contrasting  green  of  the  surrounding 
palms.  Sometimes  the  earth  trembles  under  the 
heavy  and  almost  noiseless  footsteps  of  the  Mahara- 
jah's elephants  as  they  return  from  some  work  in 
the  fields  to  the  stables  of  the  palace  where  they 
sleep.  After  that  nothing  more  is  heard,  and,  em- 
boldened by  the  silence,  little  leaping  squirrels 
possessed  with  mad  activity  enter  my  room. 

Towards  evening  human  activity  begins  again,  and 
I  leave  my  retreat  in  one  of  the  Maharajah's  car- 
riages, the  fleet  horses  of  which  give  me  an  illusion 
of  freshness. 

I  am  quartered  in  the  nearer  parts  of  Trivandrum, 
where  the  trees  are  no  longer  masters,  and  lawns 
interspersed  with  beautifully  sanded  avenues  have 
been  laid  out.  Scattered  among  the  gardens  are  all 
the  buildings  necessary  to  the  life  of  a  modern 
capital — ministries,  hospitals,  banks,  and  schools.  All 
these  things  would  have  been  less  out  of  place  had 
they  been  built  in  the  Indian  style,  but  in  these 
modern  days  we  have  to  be  content  to  find  the  same 
errors  of  taste  in  all  the  countries  of  the  world. 
Churches  and  chapels  are  found  here  too,  Protestant, 
Catholic,  and  Syrian  ;  the  latter  are  the  oldest  and 
have  fa£ades  of  childish  simplicity.  I,  however,  did 
not  come  to  Travancore  to  see  these  things,  and  I 
begin  to  perceive  how  difficult  it  will  be  to  come 
into  real  touch  with  the  India  of  the  Brahmins,  that 
deeper  India  which  I  feel  surrounding  me  ever  here, 
ever  living  and  unchangeable,  ever  haunting  me  with 
mystery. 

Outside  the  new  quarters  the  palms  extend  their 
sovereignty  over  the  immense  Trivandrum  of  the  low- 
caste  Indians.  All  the  movement  and  the  bustle  of 
the  somewhat  silent  town  is  concentrated  in  the 
"  Street  of  the  Merchants."  At  this  hour  it  is  filled 
with  people,  and  my  horses  must  move  slowly  through 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         41 

the  crowds.  I  might  call  them  a  race  of  gods,  so 
beautiful  are  their  faces,  and  their  attitudes  so  noble. 
The  expression  on  their  countenances  is  profound 
and  unfathomable. 

The  perfection  and  grace  of  an  antique  bas-relief 
are  realized  by  these  crowds  whose  arms  and  chests 
seem  hewn  from  bronze. 

These  superb  and  refined  Brahmins  look  on  cos- 
tumes and  ornaments  with  disdain,  and  are  less 
clothed  than  the  natives  of  middle  caste  or  even  than 
pariahs.  A  cloth  of  grayish  white  is  girded  round 
the  loins,  and  across  the  naked  chest  nothing  but  a 
little  linen  cord  worn  round  their  shoulders,  the  out- 
ward sign  of  rank,  that  the  priest  has  knotted  around 
them  when  they  were  born  and  which  is  never  re- 
moved ;  a  sacred  cord  with  which  one  lives  and  dies. 
On  their  foreheads,  between  the  dark  grave  eyes,  the 
monogram  of  their  god  is  inscribed  ;  but  this  must 
be  piously  repainted  each  day  after  the  morning 
ablution  :  a  red  disc  with  three  white  lines  for  the 
followers  of  Siva,  and  for  those  of  Vishnu  a  sort  of 
red  and  white  trident,  which  starts  between  their 
eyebrows,  and  whose  points  reach  the  hair,  adding 
a  strangely  puzzling  look  to  their  expression. 

There  are  few  or  no  women,  though  at  the  first 
glance  the  long  tresses  of  polished  ebony  hair,  some- 
times knotted  and  sometimes  hanging  over  their 
shoulders,  would  give  the  impression  that  these  were 
of  the  other  sex.  Those  who  show  themselves  are  of 
the  lower  castes,  and  have  common  features  like  the 
carrier-women  we  met  upon  the  road.  The  wives 
and  daughters  of  the  Brahmins,  who  walk  by  thou- 
sands in  the  evening  air,  are  doubtless  in  the  reserved 
inclosure. 

All  the  houses  which  I  saw  last  night,  closed  and 
sleeping  in  the  bluish  light,  now  form  an  animated 
bazaar,  where  fruits,  grain,  and  lightly  printed  stuffs 
of  antique  design  are  sold  ;  there  are  also  wares  of 
yellow  copper,  bright  as  those  of  gold,  many-branched 
slender  lamps  mounted  on  tall  feet  like  those  of 


42  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

Pompeii,  plates  and  vases  for  religious  usage,  and 
gods  and  goddesses  mounted  on  elephants. 

My  guide  takes  me  to  visit  the  factories  founded 
by  the  ruling  sovereign,  where  pottery  is  made  after 
the  beautiful  ancient  fashion  ;  there  are  others  where 
carpets  are  woven  of  long  wools  whose  colours  are 
copied  from  those  of  Rajputana  or  Cashmere,  and 
finally  the  workshops  where  patient  workers  chisel 
ivory  obtained  from  the  elephants  of  the  neighbour- 
ing forests,  making  little  Brahmin  gods  or  the 
handles  of  fly-fans  and  parasols. 

But  this  was  not  what  I  had  come  to  India  to 
see,  and  the  only  thing  that  interested  me  was  the 
real  Indian  life  of  the  closed  palaces  and  the  for- 
bidden Temple. 

Trivandrum  has  a  zoological  garden  too,  with  parks 
of  gazelles  and  ponds  of  crocodiles,  as  well  kept  up 
as  those  of  Europe  ;  one  of  the  few  places  where  it 
is  possible  to  escape  from  the  stifling  shade  of  the 
palms,  and  to  overlook  the  distant  prospect  of  forests 
and  jungles.  Lawns  have  been  laid  out  with  rows  of 
exotic  flowers  and  other  matchless  plants  ;  and  one 
can  wander  in  confidence  through  this  artificial 
forest  where  all  the  branches  are  carefully  trimmed, 
and  where  the  tigers  and  serpents  which  inhabit  the 
neighbouring  jungles  are  kept  in  cages. 

A  band  of  natives  executes  European  airs  with 
great  precision  in  a  kiosk  situated  in  the  garden  during 
that  short  and  fleeting  hour  between  the  cool  evening 
and  the  sudden  fall  of  darkness.  Among  the  rare 
listeners  stationed  in  the  sanded  avenues  are  a  few 
slim,  nude  forms,  and  one  or  two  white  babies  (the 
only  ones  living  in  Trivandrum)  looking  very  pale  in 
their  Indian  nurses'  arms,  and  some  children  of  native 
princes  who,  alas  !  no  longer  wear  the  national  cos- 
tume, but  are  disfigured  into  the  odd  forms  of 
Western  dolls,  dolls  still  beautiful  in  spite  of  their 
coppery  tinge  and  great  black  velvety  eyes.  As  this 
garden  is  situated  on  an  eminence,  it  is  possible  to 
see  the  Indian  Ocean  in  the  distance  ;  an  ocean  that 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         43 

has  no  ships,  and  which,  unlike  that  of  other  countries, 
has  no  communication  with  the  outer  world  ;  here 
it  is  but  a  useless  and  hostile  element  sequestrating 
one  from  other  lands,  since  there  are  no  ports  along 
the  coast,  not  even  barques  or  fishermen — nothing 
but  a  girdle  of  insuperable  breakers.  The  apparition 
of  the  far-off  sea  adds  a  feeling  of  melancholy  to  the 
sad  thoughts  of  exile  that  steal  over  me  during  this 
fashionable  evening  hour,  when  the  band  plays  for 
the  few  lonely  babies  of  Trivandrum. 

Now  the  sun  sets  quickly  in  a  moment  of  glorious 
splendour,  the  red  earth  seems  lit  up  with  a  rose- 
coloured  Bengal  fire,  and  the  inextricable  tangle  of 
branches  that  extends  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach 
assumes  a  more  vivid  tone,  as  if  illuminated  by  green 
Bengal  flames.  Now  the  night  falls  without  any 
intervening  twilight,  prematurely  and  almost  sud- 
denly, though  its  time  is  invariable  and,  unlike  our 
own,  uninfluenced  by  the  season.  There  is  still  light 
in  the  garden,  but  under  the  trees  and  in  the  leafy 
lanes  it  is  quite  dark.  Now  an  outcry  rises  from  the 
great  Temple  of  Brahma,  and  from  the  other  temples, 
scattered  round,  the  sound  of  the  cymbals  and  sacred 
shells  is  heard  once  more.  Thousands  of  little  lamps 
filled  with  coconut  oil  twinkle  amongst  the  woods, 
tracing  the  dim  roads  in  lines  of  tiny  red  flames. 


IV 

24>th  December 

It  is  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  ;  the  hour  of 
official  visits  and  princely  receptions.  As  I  take  my 
carriage  and  set  out  for  the  Maharajah's  palace  where 
I  am  to  be  presented  to  my  host,  the  bright,  warm 
rays  of  the  eternally  summer-like  sun  of  Travancore 
strike  slantingly  under  the  palms,  and  bespatter  the 
stem  of  the  arecas  and  coco-nuts  with  tones  of  rosy 
gold.  We  trot  through  the  avenues  of  green  palms 
and  soon  reach  the  huge  door  which  I  had  expected 


44  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

to  pass  through  on  the  night  of  my  arrival ;  this 
door  gives  access  to  a  square  space  which  incloses  a 
town  within  the  town,  and  into  which  people  of  low 
caste  are  never  allowed  to  enter. 

This  time  my  carriage  crosses  the  threshold  guarded 
by  a  picket  of  armed  cavalry.  The  sacred  character 
of  the  place  is  at  once  apparent,  for  we  pass  an 
immense  tank  in  which  a  thousand  Brahmins,  plunged 
to  their  waists  in  water,  are  making  ablutions  and 
praying  according  to  rites  that  are  as  old  as  the 
world.  With  their  dripping  hair,  and  wetted  breasts 
that  shine  in  the  sun  like  new  bronze,  they  look  like 
water  gods,  but  so  absorbed  are  they  in  their  dreams 
that  not  a  single  one  turns  to  look  at  the  carriage 
brushing  past  them,  in  whose  honour  the  military 
guard  plays  fife  and  tambour. 

The  walled-off  space  contains  residences  of  princes, 
schools,  and  the  huge  temple  whose  four  colossal 
towers  dominate  all  else,  four  obelisks  of  sculptured 
gods  pointing  to  the  sky.  The  fronts  and  external 
walls  of  the  palaces  are  somewhat  sad  and  common- 
place ;  above  the  doors,  however,  the  usual  monsters 
rear  their  fierce  heads  and  tell  of  India,  just  as  in  the 
extreme  East  dragons  are  characteristic  of  China. 

A  glowing  red  pervades  the  whole,  for  the  dust,  red 
as  the  roads  themselves,  has  for  centuries  covered  all 
these  buildings  with  tones  of  blood  and  of  burnt 
sienna. 

Another  squad  of  cavalry  is  drawn  up  before  the 
Maharajah's  door,  superbly  accoutred  men  in  red 
turbans,  who  handle  their  repeating  rifles  with  truly 
modern  precision. 

The  Maharajah  himself  appears  on  the  threshold. 
I  had  feared  to  see  the  Prince  dressed  in  a  European 
frock  coat,  but  no,  he  has  had  the  good  taste  to  prefer 
the  Indian  dress,  a  turban  of  white  silk  and  a  velvet 
robe  with  large  diamond  buttons. 

The  first  reception-room  is  paved  with  earthenware, 
and  crystal  chandeliers  hang  from  the  ceiling.  In 
the  middle  stands  a  throne  of  chiselled  silver,  whilst 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         45 

the  other  furniture  is  carved  from  massive  black  ebony 
in  that  Indian  style  of  lace-like  decoration  in  which 
the  Asiatic  workman  excels  all  others. 

I  have  been  commanded  to  convey  a  French  decora- 
tion to  His  Highness,  and  when  my  simple  mission 
has  been  fulfilled,  we  speak  of  that  Europe  which  the 
Prince  will  never  see,  for  the  unswerving  rules  of  his 
caste  do  not  allow  him  to  leave  India.  We  speak,  too, 
of  literary  matters,  for  the  Prince  has  a  cultivated 
and  refined  taste.  Then  he  takes  me  into  a  high 
gallery  to  show  me  the  marvellous  ivories  and  other 
treasures  which  he  is  pleased  to  collect,  and  soon  it 
is  time  for  me  to  withdraw. 

As  I  return  through  the  green  shade  of  the  palms, 
I  regret  that  I  have  been  unable  to  converse  on  more 
serious  subjects  with  this  amiable  prince,  whose  soul 
must  be  so  different  from  our  own.  We  shall  meet 
again  during  my  stay  here,  but  my  first  interview  has 
taught  me  that  the  mysteries  of  his  inmost  thoughts 
will  be  as  impenetrable  to  me  as  the  great  temple. 
There  is  a  radical  difference  of  race,  ancestry,  and  re- 
ligion between  us  ;  then  we  do  not  speak  the  same 
language,  and  the  necessity  of  conversing  through  a 
third  person  forms  (in  spite  of  the  affability  of  my 
interpreter)  a  barrier  which  isolates  us  from  all 
communion. 

I  am  to  be  presented  to  the  Maharanee  (the  Queen), 
who  lives  in  a  separate  palace,  in  two  or  three  days, 
though  she  is  not  the  Maharajah's  wife,  but  his 
maternal  aunt.  The  principal  families  of  Travancore 
belong  to  an  ancient  race  that  has  almost  disappeared 
from  the  rest  of  India,  in  which  the  transmission  of 
name,  title,  and  fortune  is  solely  through  the  female 
side,  who  in  addition  have  the  right  to  repudiate  their 
husbands  at  will. 

In  the  royal  family  the  Maharanee  is  the  eldest  of 
the  daughters,  and  the  Maharajah  the  oldest  son  of 
the  first  princess  of  royal  blood.  As  neither  the 
actual  Queen  nor  her  sisters  have  any  female  des- 
cendants, the  dynasty  is  shortly  bound  to  expire. 


46  THE  HOME  OF   THE 

The  children  of  the  Maharajah  have  no  right  to  reign, 
and  they  do  not  even  bear  the  title  of  Prince. 

The  women  of  this  caste,  whose  family  name  is 
Nayer,  nearly  all  have  features  of  an  especial  delicacy. 
They  wear  plain  bands  of  hair  on  each  side  of  their 
foreheads,  but  the  rest  of  the  hair,  which  is  very  black 
and  smooth,  is  piled  into  a  mass  on  the  top  of  their 
heads.  This  falls  forward  on  to  one  side  like  a 
soldier's  cap,  giving  a  somewhat  rakish  expression, 
which  contrasts  strongly  with  their  grave  and  formal 
manner. 


25th  December 

Towards  five  o'clock  in  the  evening,  as  the  burning 
sun  has  commenced  to  sink,  quantities  of  musicians 
in  zebu  chariots  arrive,  almost  stealthily.  The  Maha- 
rajah has  lent  me  the  orchestra  from  his  palace  for 
several  hours. 

They  come  barefooted  and  noiselessly,  entering 
my  room  with  the  velvety  step  of  a  cat ;  then  these 
artists,  who  have  fine  and  delicate  profiles,  make 
ceremonious  bows  and  seat  themselves  on  the  ground. 
They  wear  little  gilt  turbans  on  their  heads  and 
diamonds  in  their  ears,  and  are  draped  in  the  antique 
fashion  with  a  piece  of  silk  barred  with  gold,  which 
is  thrown  over  one  shoulder  so  as  to  leave  part  of  the 
chest  and  a  metal-encircled  arm  free.  Aromatic 
odours  and  scents  of  rose  waters  escape  from  their 
light  clothing. 

They  carry  huge  instruments  with  copper  strings, 
like  gigantic  guitars  or  mandolines,  whose  curved 
handles  end  in  monsters'  heads.  These  guitars, 
which  give  out  different  tones,  vary  much  amongst 
themselves,  but  they  all  have  large  bodies,  whilst 
here  and  there  along  the  neck  hollow  balloons, 
looking  like  fruits  clustered  round  a  stalk,  are  placed 
to  increase  their  resonance ;  they  are  very  old  and 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         47 

precious,  so  withered,  that  they  have  acquired  great 
sonority ;  they  are  painted  or  gilt,  or  inlaid  with 
ivory,  and  even  their  quaint  appearance  fills  me  with 
a  sense  of  mystery,  the  mystery  of  India.  The 
musicians  smilingly  show  them  to  me ;  some  are 
made  to  be  stroked  by  the  fingers  ;  others  to  be  played 
with  a  bow  ;  others  again  are  struck  with  a  stick  of 
pearl ;  and  there  is  even  one  that  is  played  by  rolling 
a  little  ebony  thing  looking  like  a  black  egg  over  the 
strings.  What  refinements  unknown  to  our  Western 
musicians  !  There  are  tom-toms  tuned  to  different 
pitches,  and  boy  singers  whose  robes  are  of  especial 
richness.  A  printed  programme  prepared  for  this  sole 
purpose  is  placed  before  me,  in  which  the  strange  but 
melodious  names  of  the  musicians  are  all  in  twelve 
syllables. 

It  is  five  o'clock,  and  all,  to  the  number  of  about 
twenty-five,  are  seated  in  readiness  on  the  carpet ; 
the  room  is  already  filled  with  shadow,  and  punkhas 
keep  the  air  in  motion  with  their  slow  and  wearied 
movement.  All  the  monster-headed  guitars  are  in 
readiness,  and  the  musicians  are  about  to  commence. 
What  agonizing  sounds  most  instruments  of  such  a 
size  produce,  and  what  a  clamour  such  tom-toms. 
I  am  all  attention,  prepared  for  much  noise.  Behind 
the  musicians  an  arched  door,  leading  to  a  white 
vestibule,  remains  open,  and  a  golden  ray  from  the 
setting  sun  falls  on  a  group  of  red-turbaned  soldiers 
of  the  Maharajah's  army  standing  in  the  reddish 
glow,  but  the  musicians  themselves  are  plunged  in 
vague  shadow. 

Can  the  concert  have  commenced  ?  From  their 
grave  and  attentive  attitudes,  and  the  way  in  which 
they  watch  one  another,  it  would  appear  so.  But 
there  is  nothing  to  be  heard.  But  yes  ;  a  hardly 
audible  high  note,  like  that  of  the  prelude  to  "  Lohen- 
grin," which  is  then  doubled,  complicated,  and  trans- 
formed into  a  murmured  rhythm,  without  growing 
any  louder.  .  .  .  What  a  total  surprise,  this  almost 
toneless  music  coming  from  such  powerful  instru- 


48  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

ments !  One  might  have  said  the  buzzing  of  a  fly 
held  within  the  hollow  of  one's  hand,  or  the  brushing 
of  the  wings  of  a  night-moth  against  the  glass,  or 
the  death  agony  of  a  dragon-fly.  Then  a  musician 
places  a  little  steel  thing  in  his  mouth  and  rubs  his 
cheek  over  it,  so  as  to  produce  the  murmurings  of  a 
fountain.  One  of  the  largest  and  most  complicated 
guitars,  that  the  player  caresses  with  his  hand  as  if 
he  feared  it,  says  "  hou,  hou  "  all  the  time  on  nearly 
the  same  notes,  like  the  veiled  cry  of  the  screech  owl ; 
another  instrument,  which  is  muted,  makes  a  sound 
like  that  of  the  sea  breaking  on  the  shore ;  and  there 
are  hardly  audible  drummings  played  by  fingers  on 
the  edge  of  the  tom-toms.  Then  suddenly  come 
unexpected  violences,  furies  that  last  for  a  couple  of 
seconds,  when  the  strings  vibrate  with  full  force, 
and  the  tom-toms  struck  in  another  way  give  out 
dull  and  heavy  sounds  like  elephants  walking  over 
hollow  ground,  or  mimic  the  rumblings  of  subterranean 
water,  or  a  torrent  that  falls  into  an  abyss.  But  this 
subsides  quickly,  and  the  nearly  silent  music  continues. 

A  young  Brahmin  with  beautiful  eyes  is  seated 
cross-legged  on  the  ground  holding  an  instrument 
whose  rude  shape  contrasts  with  the  delicate  refine- 
ment of  the  others  ;  it  is  made  of  common  pottery, 
and  has  pebbles  inside  a  sort  of  jar  with  a  large  open- 
ing in  one  of  its  smooth  and  swollen  sides. 

The  sound  which  he  draws  from  it  varies  according 
as  he  leaves  the  jar  open,  or  stops  the  opening  by 
pressing  its  mouth  close  to  his  body.  He  plays  on  it 
with  marvellously  nimble  fingers  and  sometimes  the 
sound  is  light,  at  others  deep,  occasionally  hard  and 
dry  like  a  crackling  of  hail ;  then  the  pebbles  are 
heard  moving  at  the  bottom. 

When  the  voice  of  one  of  the  guitars  rises  above  the 
whispered  silence,  it  is  always  in  a  melody  of  training 
sounds,  a  passionate  and  full-voiced  song  that  plunges 
into  agony  ;  and  the  tom-toms,  without  drowning 
the  trembling  and  plaintive  notes,  beat  an  accompani- 
ment of  mysterious  import  which  expresses  the 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         49 

exaltation  of  human  suffering  far  more  poignantly 
than  our  most  supreme  music. 

"  The  elephants  are  here."  Some  one  utters  this 
phrase,  thus  breaking  the  charm  that  holds  me  a 
listener.  What  elephants  ?  Oh,  yes !  I  had  for- 
gotten— I  had  expressed  a  desire  this  morning  to 
see  the  elephants  caparisoned  with  palanquins  on 
their  backs  in  the  Indian  manner,  and  the  order  for 
then*  equipment  had  been  graciously  given  to  the 
Palace  stables. 

The  music  ceases,  for  I  must  go  outside  to  see  the 
elephants.  When  I  reach  the  threshold  I  find  myself 
in  the  presence  of  three  enormous  beasts,  awaiting 
me  and  standing  by  the  door,  sharply  defined  in  the 
brightness  of  the  setting  sun.  Their  heads  face  me, 
and  at  first  I  can  only  distinguish  amongst  their 
trappings  the  threatening  ivory  tusks,  and  the  huge 
trunks  of  rose  colour  veined  with  black,  and  the 
striped  ears  which  keep  up  a  continual  and  fan-like 
motion.  Long  green  and  red  robes,  colonnaded 
palanquins,  necklaces  of  bells  and  head  ornaments  of 
gold  embroidery  that  fall  over  their  huge  foreheads. 
Three  superb  animals  in  their  prime  of  seventy  years 
so  gentle  and  tractable  ;  they  turn  their  intelligent 
little  eyes  towards  me  as  they  kneel  down  in  order  to 
allow  me  to  mount  if  I  should  wish. 

A  gracious  twilight  fills  the  room  as  I  return  to 
the  music  of  beating  wings  and  rustling  insects. 

Each  of  the  guitars  chants  its  despair  in  turn  by 
intervals  of  almost  voiceless  harmony,  the  one  that  is 
struck  by  the  hand  or  bow,  the  one  that  is  beaten 
with  the  pearl  rod,  and  that  strangest  one  of  all  which 
weeps  when  the  little  egg-shaped  ebony  ball  is  rolled 
over  its  strings. 

Their  songs  have  not  the  bewildering  echoes  of 
some  far-removed  sadness,  as  those  of  Mongolia  or 
China  have,  for  they  are  almost  comprehensible  to 
our  senses  ;  they  betray  the  sad  brooding  of  a  race 
that  is  not  different  from  our  own,  though  long 
centuries  have  parted  us  ;  they  and  our  gipsies  use 

4 


50  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

the  same  fevered  phrases,  though  in  a  somewhat 
coarser  way. 

Human  voices  were  only  introduced  towards  the 
end.  One  after  the  other  great-eyed,  slender  youths, 
clothed  in  gorgeous  draperies,  executed  trills  with 
wonderful  rapidity,  but  their  childish  voices  are 
already  broken  and  worn ;  the  man  in  a  golden 
turban,  who  conducts,  first  plays  a  weird  prelude 
and  then  with  lowered  head  looks  into  their  eyes 
in  the  manner  of  a  serpent  fascinating  a  bird.  I 
feel  that  he  cast  a  spell  on  them,  and  that  he  could, 
if  he  wished,  break  the  whole  mechanism  of  their 
feeble  throats.  It  seems  the  words  which  they 
chant  to  these  sad  rhythms  are  prayers  to  an  offended 
goddess  whom  they  wish  to  appease. 

Finally,  it  is  the  turn  of  the  great  master,  a  man  of 
about  twenty-five  to  thirty,  who  has  a  beautiful  face 
and  an  expression  of  energy.  He  is  going  to  repre- 
sent, with  action  and  song,  the  plaints  of  a  young 
girl  whose  lover  loves  her  no  longer. 

Seated  on  the  ground  he  seems  plunged  in  medita- 
tion whilst  his  face  becomes  sombre.  Then,  all  at 
once,  the  voice  bursts  forth  with  the  cutting  tone  of 
Eastern  bagpipes,  though  the  upper  notes  are  pos- 
sessed by  a  hoarse,  manly  quality,  and  an  infinity  of 
sorrow  is  expressed  in  a  poignant  and,  to  me,  novel 
manner.  The  sorrow  expressed  in  his  face  and  the 
contractions  of  the  delicate  hands,  is  rendered  with 
highest  art. 

This  orchestra  and  these  singers  belong  to  the 
Maharajah,  and  their  music  resounds  daily  in  the 
silence  of  his  guarded  palace,  where  ever-bowing  ser- 
vants, whose  hands  are  joined  in  a  perpetual  salute, 
walk  with  cat-like  steps.  How  far  away  the  thoughts 
of  this  prince  must  be  from  ours,  and  how  different 
his  conceptions  of  the  sadnesses  of  life  and  love  and 
death !  But  this  strange  and  rare  music,  which  is 
part  of  his  being,  reveals  a  portion  of  his  soul  to  me 
that  I  should  never  see  in  our  short  and  formal  inter- 
views, so  burdened  with  ceremony  and  foreign  words. 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         51 

VI 

26th  December 

Three  thousand  Brahmins,  who  live  in  the  sacred 
inclosure,  and  bathe  in  the  holy  pond,  are  at  present 
the  guests  of  the  Maharajah.  They  have  come  from 
the  surrounding  countries,  and  from  those  forests 
where  they  live  on  fruit  and  grain,  absorbed  in  mystic 
dreams  and  disdainful  of  the  things  of  this  world. 
They  have  assembled  to  celebrate  a  religious  festivity 
that  lasts  for  fifty  days,  and  is  held  every  six  years. 
They  offer  long  prayers  of  expiation  for  blood  that 
was  shed  many  years  ago  in  a  neighbouring  country 
during  a  war  of  conquest  ;  it  matters  little  that  it  was 
countless  years  ago  ;  the  spilt  blood  still  calls  for 
supplicating  cries,  still  demands  religious  music,  and 
the  bellowings  of  sacred  shells  like  those  graven  on 
the  arms  of  Trivandrum.  The  ray-crowned  idols  of 
Panda vas,  which  are  thirty  feet  high,  and  have  hideous 
faces,  and  fierce  downcast  eyes,  have  been  drawn  for 
this  occasion  from  their  secret  sanctuaries.  Muscular 
efforts  aided  by  ropes  have  rolled  them  into  the  open 
air  and  sunlight  of  the  temple  courtyard,  where  they 
may  strike  terror  into  the  minds  of  the  simple — 
whilst  the  initiated  pray  to  the  invisible  and  ineffable 
Brahma  from  the  depths  of  their  souls.  During  these 
celebrations,  the  entire  Brahmin  inclosure  palpitates 
with  the  intense  life  of  ancient  rites,  of  burning 
prayers  of  terror,  and  of  ecstasy.  I  can  hear  the 
far-off  murmurings  which  have  an  irresistible  attrac- 
tion for  me,  but  I  am  rigidly  excluded,  and  neither 
the  influence  of  the  Maharajah  nor  that  of  any  one 
else  can  help  me. 

The  festival  of  the  initiated  has  found  an  echo 
among  the  believers  of  the  middle  and  lower  castes 
who  live  under  the  immense  palms  that  cover  the  rest 
of  the  town,  and  who,  like  myself,  are  excluded  from 
communion  with  the  Brahmins.  Prayers  and  sup- 
plications are  heard  there  too,  in  the  whitening  dawn, 
and  at  the  time  of  sunset. 


52  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

Imploring  cries  are  heard  in  all  the  cemeteries  and 
at  the  foot  of  the  sacred  trees  under  which  warriors 
have  been  buried.  The  little  sacred  lamps  have  been 
lit  all  along  the  shady  roads  and  at  those  places  where 
monumental  stones  arise  ;  and  music  offerings  and 
flowers  are  here  too.  The  smallest  temples  and  even 
the  simple  altars  consecrated  to  the  divinities  of  the 
jungles  shine  with  a  thousand  trembling  flames.  Here 
I  am  welcome  to  wander  as  I  choose,  under  the  gloom 
of  the  interlacing  palms,  in  search  of  the  music  and 
the  lights  that  lure  me  to  them. 

I  reach  a  very  old  and  humble  temple,  with  broken 
granite  columns,  standing  at  the  foot  of  huge  trees 
which  lose  themselves  in  the  gloom.  Tiny  lamps 
filled  with  coco-nut  oil,  which  look  like  glow-worms, 
cast  their  light  about  the  temple,  which  is  garlanded 
with  flowers  and  ornaments  of  pleated  reeds.  The 
horrible  parrot-faced  god  is  stationed  in  the  further- 
most of  two  or  three  little  rooms,  where  he  crouches, 
many-armed,  with  his  green  face  overshadowed  by  a 
high  headdress.  Here  young,  white  kids  disport 
themselves  in  these  sacred  precincts,  of  which  they 
are  the  familiar  and  venerated  occupants.  Half -nude 
worshippers,  decked  in  necklets  of  flowers,  throng 
round  the  door,  but  the  noise  of  the  tambourines  and 
bagpipes  is  almost  drowned  by  the  constant  and 
plaintive  bellowings  of  the  sacred  shells. 

Smiles  of  welcome  greet  me,  and  after  having 
placed  wreaths  of  jasmine  flowers,  which  have  in- 
toxicating odours  like  that  of  incense,  round  my  neck, 
the  people  stand  on  one  side  that  I  may  see. 

Now  I  reach  a  place  where  a  monstrous  fig  tree  of 
great  age  stands.  Men  are  assembled  round  a  granite 
platform,  supported  on  pillars  which  must  have  be- 
longed to  some  ancient  funeral  monument,  revelling 
in  the  sound  of  maddening  music.  The  customary 
lights,  the  garlands  of  roses  or  jasmine,  and  the 
offerings  of  fruit  and  grain  are  here  too.  A  kind  of 
officiating  priest,  a  man  of  low  caste,  whose  face  is 
quite  black,  recites  ritual  phrases  in  a  frenzied  manner, 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE        53 

broken  by  the  din  of  the  tom-toms.  Women  stand 
behind  the  tree,  almost  hidden  in  shadow,  and  utter 
constant  and  long-protracted  cries.  Children  tend  a 
fire  of  grass  which  has  been  lighted  on  the  ground, 
and  into  whose  flames  the  tom-toms  are  constantly 
thrust  so  that  they  may  retain  their  dry,  sonorous 
tones.  The  officiating  priest  is  seized  with  increasing 
excitement,  and  soon  seems  possessed  of  an  evil 
spirit.  He  gives  vent  to  terrible  howls  and  seeks  to 
dash  his  head  against  stones  or  trunks  of  trees.  A 
hedge  of  naked  arms  is  formed  round  to  keep  him  from 
harm,  till  at  length  he  falls  on  the  ground  exhausted 
and  motionless  with  a  horrible  rattling  in  his  throat. 

Yet  it  would  seem  that  this  incomprehensible  god, 
whom  they  worship  under  the  palms  to  the  sound  of 
the  tambours  and  the  savage  music,  is  the  same  deity 
in  different  shape  that  the  mysterious  Brahmins  wor- 
ship in  spirit  in  the  secret  recesses  of  the  great  temple. 

Indeed,  this  god  is  but  another  form  of  the  God  we 
adore.  For  there  are  no  false  gods,  and  the  wisdom 
of  sages  who  profess  that  theirs  is  the  true  God,  and 
that  they  alone  know  his  name,  is  but  childish  folly. 
For  the  rest,  the  conception  of  a  God  seated  amidst 
the  unmeasurable  and  inaccessible,  be  he  one  or 
many,  be  he  named  Brahma,  Jehovah,  or  Allah,  so 
far  exceeds  our  comprehension,  that  a  little  less  or 
greater  error  can  hardly  matter  in  our  ideas  of  Him. 
No  doubt,  too,  that  He  listens  just  as  attentively  to 
the  prayer  of  the  simple,  uneducated  native,  who 
wanders  through  the  forest  pouring  forth  his  agony 
of  life  and  death  at  the  foot  of  some  green-faced  fetish. 


VII 

26th  December 

The  cry  of  the  crows  is  so  much  intermingled  with 
all  the  other  sounds  of  India,  that  one  ends  by  ceasing 
to  heed  it.  I  have  already  almost  ceased  to  notice  the 
hideous  morning  aubade  that  immediately  succeeds 


54  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

the  murmurings  that  rise  from  the  temple.  A  great 
tree  that  stands  before  my  terrace  is  one  of  their 
favourite  nightly  resting-places  ;  a  tree  covered  with 
large  branches  which  bend  under  the  weight  of  their 
black  burden. 

As  I  take  my  seat  in  the  carriage  this  morning,  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun,  which  rises  at  a  fixed  hour  each 
day,  just  commence  to  penetrate  through  the  leaves 
and  under  the  vaulted  palms  ;  once  more  I  cross  the 
forbidden  inclosure  in  order  that  I  may  present  my- 
self before  the  Maharanee  (the  Queen). 

Directly  we  have  passed  the  entrance,  I  see  the 
sacred  ponds  again  in  which  Brahmins  plunged  to 
their  waists  in  water  are  making  their  customary 
morning  ablutions. 

This  walled  town,  which  I  am  visiting  at  a  much 
earlier  hour  than  on  the  last  occasion,  contains  not 
only  the  dwellings  of  the  princes  standing  amidst 
gardens  of  palms,  but  streets  bordered  by  humble 
houses  built  of  clay  that  are  inhabited  by  Hindoos  of 
high  caste.  This  charming  hour  of  daybreak  is  the 
one  chosen  by  the  long-eyed  housewives  for  the  de- 
coration of  the  earth  that  lies  in  front  of  their 
dwellings.  They  trace  wonderful  patterns  in  white 
powder  upon  the  red  soil,  which  has  previously  been 
well  swept  and  beaten.  Their  designs  are  but  fleeting, 
and  are  carried  away  by  the  lightest  wind  or  by  the 
feet  of  men,  goats,  dogs,  and  crows.  They  do  their 
work  very  quickly,  guiding  themselves  in  the  tracing 
of  these  designs  by  marks  which  have  been  placed 
there  beforehand,  and  are  visible  to  them  alone. 
Bending  forward  in  a  graceful  attitude,  they  move  the 
little  box  which  contains  a  powder  that  escapes  in  a 
white  trail  like  an  endless  ribbon  over  the  surface  of 
the  ground.  Complicated  arabesques  and  geometrical 
figures  grow  marvellously  under  their  hands.  Often, 
too,  they  place  a  hibiscus  flower,  an  Indian  pink,  and 
a  yellow  marigold  at  the  chief  junction  of  their  net- 
work of  lines  after  the  design  is  completed.  The 
little  street,  decorated  from  one  end  to  the  other  in 


MAHARAJAH  OF   TRAVANCORE         55 

this  manner,  seems  to  be  momentarily  covered  by  a 
fairy  carpet. 

The  whole  of  this  quarter  has  retained  its  character 
of  old-world  elegance,  honest  peace,  and  simple 
dignity. 

In  front  of  the  door  of  the  Maharanee's  garden 
red-turbaned  soldiers  are  drawn  up,  who  salute  and 
present  arms  to  the  sound  of  fife  and  drum,  in  faultless 
manner.  The  Queen's  husband  descends  from  the 
steps  in  front  of  the  house  to  welcome  me,  with  truly 
distinguished  courtesy.  Like  the  Maharajah,  he  has 
had  the  good  taste  to  retain  his  Indian  dress  of  velvet 
with  diamond  buttons,  and  his  turban  of  white  silk. 
Notwithstanding  this,  he  is  a  scholar  and  a  man  of 
refined  literary  taste.  The  Queen  holds  her  receptions 
in  a  room  on  the  first  floor  which  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
decorated  with  European  furniture,  but  she  herself,  in 
national  costume,  looks  like  a  charming  personifica- 
tion of  India.  She  has  a  regular  profile,  pure  features, 
and  magnificent  large  eyes,  in  fact,  all  the  beauty  of 
her  race.  In  accordance  with  the  tradition  of  the 
Nayer  family,  her  jet-black  hair  is  wound  round  her 
forehead.  Enormous  rings  of  diamonds  and  rubies 
hang  from  her  ear-lobes,  and  her  naked  arms,  which 
are  much  bejewelled,  are  unconcealed  by  her  velvet 
bodice.  For  the  rest,  a  piece  of  silk  figured  with  ex- 
quisite designs  in  gold  covers  her  statuesque  form. 
Oh  !  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  degree  of  refinement 
to  which  a  noble  lady  of  sovereign  race  may  attain 
in  a  country  where  even  the  lower  classes  are  cultured, 
but  the  especial  charm  of  this  Maharanee  lies  in  her 
benevolence  and  in  a  reserved  and  gentle  sweetness. 

There  is  a  charm  of  sadness,  too,  which  is  apparent 
behind  her  smiles.  I  know  one  of  the  griefs  which 
has  darkened  the  almost  cloistered  life  of  the  Queen. 
Brahma  has  given  her  no  daughter,  nor  any  niece 
that  she  might  adopt,  so  her  dynasty  is  doomed  to 
expire,  and  doubtless  there  will  be  great  changes  in 
Travancore,  a  land  hitherto  sheltered  from  the  march 
of  centuries. 


56  THE   HOME   OF   THE 

We  speak  of  Europe,  which  has  a  charm  for  her 
imagination,  and  I  see  that  one  of  her  dreams  has 
been  to  know  this  strange  and  far-off  country,  as 
inaccessible  to  her  as  the  planet  Mars  or  the  moon, 
for  no  Indian  lady  of  noble  birth,  not  to  mention  a 
queen,  may  undertake  such  a  voyage  without  incur- 
ring so  great  a  loss  of  caste  that  she  would  at  once 
fall  to  the  rank  of  a  pariah. 

During  the  few  remaining  days  which  I  shall  spend 
here  I  may  sometimes  have  the  honour  to  see  the 
Maharajah,  but  never  again  the  gracious  Maharanee, 
so  before  leaving  I  seek  to  impress  her  image  on  my 
mind,  for  her  face  does  not  seem  to  belong  to  our 
times,  and  it  is  only  in  old  Indian  miniatures  that  I 
have  had  a  glimpse  of  such  princesses. 

After  my  visit  to  the  Maharanee  has  terminated,  I 
go,  without  leaving  the  Brahmin  inclosure,  and  see 
the  sons  of  one  of  her  sisters,  who  are  heirs  pre- 
sumptive to  the  throne,  after  whose  death  the  dynasty 
will  terminate. 

They  bear  the  title  of  first  and  second  prince,  and 
live  in  separate  dwellings  standing  in  the  midst  of 
gardens.  Though  these  young  men  wear  plumes  of 
diamonds  in  their  turbans,  hunt  the  tiger  and  follow 
the  rites  of  Brahma,  they  are  none  the  less  conversant 
with  the  trend  of  modern  thought,  and  occupy  them- 
selves with  literature  or  natural  philosophy.  One  of 
them,  who  had  in  accordance  with  my  request  taken 
me  to  see  the  trappings  of  his  elephants,  showed  me 
some  remarkable  photographs  which  he  had  taken 
and  developed  himself,  and  which  he  had  afterwards 
sent  to  an  exhibition  in  Europe,  having  the  wish  to 
gain  a  medal. 

I  felt  a  desire  this  evening,  as  the  sun  was  setting, 
to  see  the  Indian  Ocean,  whose  waves  break  on  the 
barren  shores  about  a  mile  from  Trivandrum. 

I  had  to  cross  the  whole  extent  of  the  walled  town, 
but  the  livery  of  the  Maharajah's  carriage  insured  me 
safe  conduct.  I  passed  peaceful  little  streets  bordered 
by  Brahmin  houses,  the  red  walls  of  palaces  and 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE          57 

gardens,  and  skirted  the  precincts  of  the  great  temple 
to  which  I  had  never  been  so  close. 

The  town  once  crossed,  I  found  myself  in  a  sandy 
waste  amongst  the  dunes,  where  the  last  red  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  still  lingered.  A  few  broken  and 
twisted  palms  were  scattered  here  and  there,  all  lean- 
ing in  the  same  direction,  having  yielded  like  the  trees 
of  our  own  coasts  to  the  force  of  the  sea  winds. 
Heaps  of  sand  which  must  have  taken  centuries  to 
accumulate,  crumbled  remains  of  madrepore  shells 
and  stones,  the  pulverization  of  myriads  of  existences, 
announced  the  near  presence  of  the  great  destroyer, 
whose  terrible  voice  commenced  to  make  itself  heard. 
Suddenly  the  road  made  a  turn  among  the  dunes,  and 
the  ever  restless  ocean  was  spread  out  before  me. 

In  other  regions  of  the  world  it  seems  as  if  human 
life  flocked  instinctively  towards  the  sea.  Men  con- 
struct their  dwellings  by  its  shores,  and  their  towns 
as  nearly  as  possible  to  its  waters  ;  they  are  jealous 
of  the  smallest  bay  that  can  contain  ships,  and  even 
the  smallest  strip  of  coast. 

Here,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  shunned  as  something 
dead  or  void.  This  sea  is  but  an  abyss  that  cannot 
be  crossed,  that  serves  no  purpose,  and  but  inspires 
terror.  It  is  almost  inaccessible,  and  no  one  ven- 
tures on  it.  Before  the  endless  line  of  breakers,  and 
along  the  endless  extent  of  sand,  the  only  human 
trace  that  I  can  see  is  an  old  granite  temple,  lowly 
and  rude,  with  worn  columns,  half  eaten  away  by 
salt  and  spray.  It  is  placed  here  to  appease  and 
exorcise  the  restless  devourer  which  imprisons  Tra- 
vancore,  and  which,  calm  as  it  is  this  evening,  will 
shortly,  when  the  summer  monsoon  commences, 
rage  furiously  during  an  entire  season. 

VIII 

Friday,  29th  December 

Among  the  many  graceful  favours  which  the 
Dewan,  in  accordance  with  the  instructions  of  his 


58  THE   HOME  OF  THE 

Serene  Highness  the  Maharajah,  showered  on  me, 
one  of  the  most  charming  and  unforgettable  was  my 
reception  of  to-day  at  the  college  for  young  ladies  of 
noble  race. 

I  set  out  on  my  way  directly  the  sun  had  risen, 
not,  indeed,  without  some  misgivings,  for  I  dreaded 
some  tedious  display  of  learning.  In  the  forest 
palms,  however,  where  we  allowed  our  horses  to  walk, 
fearing  that  we  might  arrive  too  early,  I  saw  first 
one,  then  two,  three  pretty  little  girls,  sparkling 
with  magnificent  ornaments  ;  naked-footed  children 
of  about  twelve  years  with  white  flowers  in  their 
hair,  whose  gold-embroidered  silks  and  the  jewels 
which  covered  their  arms  and  neck  shone  in  the  first 
rays  of  the  early  morning  sun.  Their  steps,  like 
mine,  were  directed  towards  the  Brahmin  inclosure, 
but  when  they  saw  my  carriage  they  commenced  to 
hasten,  running  as  fast  as  the  bands  of  precious  silks 
encasing  their  legs  would  allow  them.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  these  toilettes  of  Peris  or  Apsaras  were 
assumed  in  my  honour  ? 

I  found  all  the  little  Indian  fairies  assembled  at  the 
college  in  their  dazzling  array.  It  was  holiday  time, 
it  seems,  but  they  consented  to  give  up  a  morn- 
ing for  me.  A  little  one  advances  and  presents  me 
with  one  of  those  highly  scented  and  formal  bouquets 
in  which  flowers  and  gold  thread  are  mingled. 

It  is  the  Maharajah's  pleasure  to  diffuse  education 
in  his  kingdom,  education  which  has  but  proved  a 
scourge  to  us,  but  which  will  be  beneficent  at  Travan- 
core,  since  faith  has  not  ceased  to  irradiate  all  earthly 
things.  His  Highness  had  also  wished  to  show  me  a 
rare  and  unexpected  spectacle  in  connection  with  this 
college  of  noble  ladies  which  quite  equals  or  even  excels 
our  own  ;  and  the  word  of  command  had  been  issued 
to  the  parents  that  the  little  ones  should  be  decked  in 
the  heavy  jewels  of  their  mothers  and  grandmothers. 
Youthful  arms  and  swelling  bosoms  glittered  with 
ancient  jewellery,  set  in  matchless  archaic  mountings, 
such  as  the  goddesses  of  the  temples  wear. 


A  HINDOO  LADY. 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         59 

The  class-rooms  were  like  those  of  our  European 
colleges,  light  and  simply  furnished,  with  geographical 
charts  and  instructive  models  hanging  on  the  white- 
washed walls.  But  the  strange  scholars  all  looked 
like  idols,  from  the  little  ones  whose  great  black  eyes 
glittered,  and  whose  dark  bronze  skins  were  seen 
between  their  loin-cloths  and  their  golden  corselets, 
up  to  the  older  ones,  who  wore  a  veil  of  white  Indian 
muslin  over  their  dark  coiled  hair,  and  who  already 
wore  the  grave  and  anxious  expression  of  approach- 
ing womanhood. 

Essays  of  style  and  historical  compositions  are 
shown  me,  also  pretty  drawings  after  European 
models  that  the  little  goddesses  had  made,  quite  in 
the  manner  of  our  own  children  ;  they  were  signed 
with  names  many  syllables  in  length — melodious 
names  that  read  like  a  phrase  of  music. 

A  little  one  of  five  or  six  had  copied  an  eagle  of 
complicated  plumage  standing  on  a  branch  ;  but  she 
had  commenced  in  the  middle  of  the  paper  without 
taking  measurement,  yet,  though  there  was  no  room 
left  for  the  head,  she  had  sketched  it  all  the  same 
flattened  and  widened  out,  extending  to  the  edges  of 
the  paper,  and  not  a  detail  or  a  feather  was  omitted, 
and  she  had  bravely  signed  her  beautiful  name — 
Apsara. 

I  see  gold-embroidered  velvets  and  veils  diaphanous 
as  mists  ;  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds,  and  trans- 
parent enamels  ;  many  bracelets,  some  so  large  that 
they  must  be  held  on  to  the  little  arms  by  thread  ; 
necklets  made  from  scarce  Portuguese  coins,  which 
dated  from  Goa's  times  of  splendour,  and  which  have 
slept  for  centuries  in  coffers  of  sandal  wood. 

Finally,  there  are  songs,  pieces  of  music  for  violins, 
and  then  dances — slow  and  complicated  dances  that 
have  a  religious  tinge,  consisting  of  a  series  of  rhyth- 
mic steps  and  a  waving  of  jewel-laden  arms. 

These  pupils,  belonging  to  castes  never  seen  by 
strangers,  are  all  beautiful,  refined,  and  graceful,  and 
have  eyes  such  as  one  can  but  see  in  India.  Oh  I 


60  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

how  can  I  describe  the  impression  of  chaste  and 
transcendent  beauty  that  these  mysterious  little 
flowers  have  given  me  ? 

IX 

Saturday,  30th  December 

I  leave  Travancore  to-morrow  morning,  where 
many  more  favours  have  been  showered  on  me  than 
I  deserve,  seeing  that  I  have  simply  acquitted  my- 
self of  the  agreeable  duty  of  offering  a  cross  to  the 
prince.  I  shall  go  northward  in  one  of  the  great 
decked  boats  belonging  to  the  Maharajah,  by  way 
of  the  chain  of  lakes,  and  it  will  take  me  about  two 
days  and  two  nights  to  reach  the  little  kingdom  of 
Cochin,  where  I  shall  stop  for  a  while.  After  that 
there  will  be  a  journey  of  thirty  to  forty  hours  out- 
side Cochin,  then  I  shall  come  to  the  more  frequented 
regions,  where  the  railroads  run,  and  I  shall  rejoin 
the  main  line  from  Calicut  to  Madras. 

As  this  is  my  last  evening  in  Trivandrum,  I  linger 
longer  than  usual  in  the  groves  which  run  through 
the  town,  where  feeble  lamps  burn  dimly  under  the 
shade  of  the  dense  palms  whose  conquering  night 
they  are  powerless  to  dispel. 

The  subjugating  yoke  of  plant  life  is  even  more 
apparent  now,  when  everything  is  wrapped  in  a 
magnificent  fall  of  green,  than  it  is  in  the  daytime. 

I  am  leaving  to-morrow  morning,  though  I  have 
seen  hardly  anything,  and  have  in  no  way  pene- 
trated the  secret  heart  of  India ;  I  have  divined 
nothing  of  the  Brahminism  of  which  this  country  is 
one  of  the  centres,  for  everything  seems  barred  to 
Europeans,  even  though  the  most  gracious  hospitality 
be  extended  to  them. 

My  chance  wanderings  finally  bring  me  to  the 
street  of  the  merchants,  the  great  straight  street  that 
leads  to  the  inclosure  which  guards  the  palaces  and 
temples ;  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  night  starry. 
Crowds  of  long-haired  men  wander  under  the  light 


MAHARAJAH  OF   TRAVANCORE         61 

of  antique  lamps  which  are  supported  by  tall  thin 
stalks.  These  are  buyers  and  sellers  of  hammered 
copper-printed  muslins,  idols,  and  Brahmin  images — 
everywhere  a  press  of  naked  chests,  black  heads  of 
hair,  and  sparkling  dark  eyes.  Stalls  where  roots, 
grain,  and  cakes,  the  frugal  nourishment  of  the 
Brahmins,  are  displayed  ;  myriads  of  little  shops, 
always  lit  by  the  same  kind  of  ancient  lamps,  whose 
double  or  triple  flames  are  supported  by  figures  of 
monsters  or  of  gods. 

The  porch  of  the  sacred  inclosure  is  seen  at  the 
end  of  the  street  in  the  same  direction,  but  much 
farther  on  the  great  temple,  through  whose  open 
door  the  inner  depths,  outlined  by  thousands  of  little 
flames,  are  visible  ;  there  is  the  sanctuary  of  Brahma, 
the  soul  of  this  land  of  dreams  and  meditation. 

The  whole  building  is  illuminated,  even  to  the 
depths  where  the  priests  alone  may  venture  ;  the 
nave  is  outlined  by  points  of  flame  that  cluster  to- 
wards the  centre  into  a  geometrical  pattern  ;  this 
must  be  a  gigantic  chamber,  but  it  is  too  far  off  for 
me  to  distinguish.  As  ever,  people  are  playing  within, 
for  the  sound  of  music  and  the  braying  of  trumpets 
reaches  me,  mingled  with  the  long  murmurs  of 
human  voices.  The  door  that  I  may  not  cross  stands 
ever  open,  and  above  it  the  huge  pyramid,  which  I 
know  to  be  composed  of  a  mass  of  stone -carved  gods, 
raised  its  head  through  the  thin  mists  till  its  jagged 
summit  seems  to  mingle  with  the  stars.  It  is  usual 
in  times  of  solemnity,  such  as  the  present  one,  when 
prayers  and  supplications  are  unending,  to  light  a 
trail  of  little  flame  on  each  of  the  four  pyramids  ; 
these  little  fires  commence  above  the  doors  and  climb 
up  amongst  the  black  masses  of  the  sculpture  till 
they  seem  to  trace  a  road  to  heaven  through  the 
ranks  of  stone-carved  gods. 

At  length  the  street  becomes  deserted,  and  the 
shopkeepers  commence  to  close  their  wooden  shutters 
and  to  kindle  the  little  lamps  that  stand  in  niches  in 
the  walls,  and  which  serve  to  keep  evil  spirits  from 


62  THE  HOME   OF  THE 

the  houses.  I  watch  the  merchants  finishing  their 
daily  reckoning.  The  tiny  round  silver  or  copper 
coins  of  Travancore  are  collected  in  a  bag,  then  they 
take  handfuls  of  them  on  a  counting-board,  which 
consists  of  a  plank  furnished  with  holes  ;  a  little 
piece  of  money  drops  into  each  hole,  and  when  the 
board  is  quite  full  one  knows  the  exact  number ; 
then  these  are  shaken  into  a  chest  and  the  reckoning 
recommences.  Others  write  down  figures  and  make 
calculations  on  bands  of  dried  palm-leaf,  which  look 
like  ancient  papyri,  and  I  fancy  that  I  am  back  in 
olden  times. 

At  length  the  hour  has  come  when  all  signs  of  life 
cease,  save  the  little  lights  on  the  walls  and  the  more 
distant  illuminations  of  the  temples  ;  all  is  plunged 
in  gloom  and  silence.  No  women  are  visible,  for 
they  have  all  disappeared  into  the  dwelling-houses ; 
but  the  men  who  have  knotted  up  their  hair  are  seen 
shrouded  in  white  linen  or  muslin  cloths,  lying  on 
the  terraces  or  under  the  verandas,  or  even  before 
the  doors  amongst  the  goats  ;  with  the  repulsion 
that  all  Indians  feel  for  roofs  and  ceilings,  these  men 
prefer  to  sleep  in  the  mild,  warm  night  filled  with 
the  scent  of  flowers,  where  all  seems  veiled  in  a  bluish 
dust. 


x 


When  the  sound  of  the  morning  prayer  rising  from 
the  sanctuary  ceases  to  be  heard,  and  as  the  harshly 
croaking  crows  disperse  in  the  gray  dawn,  it  is  time 
to  start,  so  I  take  my  seat  in  the  carriage  which  is  to 
conduct  me  to  the  "  port  "  of  Trivandrum.  Once 
again  at  the  exquisite  hour  of  sunrise  I  shall  pass 
through  the  groves  of  coco-palms  in  which  the 
town  is  hidden,  but  it  will  be  for  the  last  time. 

The  stormy  wind  that  has  raged  during  the  night 
has  deposited  blood-red  dust  upon  the  walls  of  mud 
and  on  the  thatched  roofs,  giving  more  than  ever 


MAHARAJAH  OF   TRAVANCORE         63 

the  impression  of  houses  illuminated  by  the  glow  of 
a  red  fire,  but  above  them  the  palms  that  have  been 
bathed  in  the  freshness  of  the  night  have  an  almost 
supernatural  green,  tinged  with  glints  of  emerald. 
Here  and  there  bunches  of  flowers  hang  down  in  a 
falling  shower  from  the  summits  of  the  trees  till  they 
reach  to  the  ground. 

Pickets  of  the  Maharajah's  soldiers,  looking  mag- 
nificent in  their  turbans  and  accoutrements,  pass 
and  repass  on  their  way  to  relieve  outlying  posts. 
Throngs  of  people  are  calmly  proceeding  to  mass,  for 
it  is  Sunday,  and  I  see  little  girls  veiled  in  muslins 
holding  prayer  books  in  their  hands  ;  nearly  all  these 
are  Christians  of  old  race,  whose  ancestors  wor- 
shipped Christ  several  centuries  before  our  own.  We 
hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  of  the  strange  Syrian  or 
Catholic  chapels  that  are  built  close  to  the  temples 
of  Brahma,  and  are  sheltered  by  the  same  verdant 
palms.  The  enchanting  scene  gives  an  impression 
of  peaceful  calm,  in  which  order  and  tolerance  reign 
supreme. 

At  length  the  wharf  is  reached.  It  will  readily  be 
understood  that  the  port  of  Trivandrum  is  not 
situated  on  the  ocean,  but  on  the  lagoon,  for  the 
coast  of  this  country  is  inaccessible. 

My  boat,  which  belongs  to  the  prince,  lies  motion- 
less amidst  a  hundred  others  ;  it  is  a  sort  of  long 
galley  for  fourteen  rowers,  having  a  cabin  on  the 
poop  in  which  it  is  possible  to  lie  down  and  sleep. 
These  fourteen  rowers  ply  paddles  with  bamboo 
handles,  and  form  a  wonderful  automatic  machine  of 
bronze  humanity,  instinct  with  force  and  vitality. 

The  lagoon,  which  at  first  was  deep  and  narrow 
and  shut  in  by  a  thick  hedge  of  palms,  gradually 
widens  and  becomes  sunlit.  Our  rowers  work  them- 
selves up  to  a  pitch  of  excitement  with  songs  and 
cries,  cleaving  the  foul  and  sluggish  waters  rapidly, 
and  so  begins  the  peaceful  journey  which  will  last 
three  days. 

On  both  shores  palms  mingled  with  many-stemmed 


64  THE  HOME  OF   THE 

banyan  trees  form  an  endless  hedge,  whilst  garlands 
of  unknown  flowers  hang  from  the  branches,  and 
great  spotted  and  twisted  water-lilies  spring  from 
amongst  the  rushes. 

Barques  which  are  going  to  Trivandrum  pass  us 
continually,  for  the  lagoon  is  the  chief  high-road  of 
the  peaceful  country.  Huge  boats,  like  gondolas, 
that  pursue  their  slow  and  noiseless  course,  impelled 
by  statuesque  boatmen  furnished  with  long  poles, 
these  have  houses  on  their  poops,  filled  with  Indian 
men  and  women  whose  black  eyes  stare  with  wonder 
at  our  fast  boat,  manned  by  fourteen  rowers. 

Sometimes  a  marvellous  bird,  brighter  and  more 
gorgeous  than  our  kingfishers,  skims  quickly  along 
the  surface  of  the  water,  with  a  cry  of  joy  ;  and  there 
are  beds  of  flowering  lilies,  and  masses  of  lotus 
sheeted  with  rosy  blooms. 

The  interminable  lagoon  that  serves  as  a  highway 
changes  its  appearance  hourly.  Sometimes  it  is 
narrow  and  shady,  sometimes  overhung  like  a  church 
nave  by  coco-nut  palms,  whose  ribs  resemble  arches  ; 
at  other  times  it  enlarges  and  expands  and  seems  to 
extend  to  infinite  distances  ;  then  it  narrows  and  the 
space  between  the  serried  banks  of  palms  is  dotted 
with  countless  green  islands. 

The  sun  rises,  and  in  spite  of  the  shade  and  the 
moving  water  I  feel  myself  gradually  overcome  by 
the  stifling  heat.  Our  speed  is  undiminished  as  the 
chief  excites  the  men  from  time  to  time  by  an  im- 
perious clack  of  the  tongue,  causing  their  muscles 
to  stiffen  as  if  they  had  been  struck  with  a  lash,  and 
to  which  they  reply  with  falsetto  cries  like  those  of 
monkeys.  Trailing  grasses,  branches  of  lilies,  and 
floating  reeds  swim  quickly  past  our  swiftly  flying 
boat. 

It  is  ten  o'clock,  and  we  are  no  longer  sheltered  by 
the  palms,  but  journey  under  the  blue  sky  along  a 
narrow  passage  bordered  by  shrubs  bearing  white 
flowers.  The  two  symmetrical  rows  of  bronzed  flesh 
continue  the  mechanical  movements — which  have 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE        65 

already  lasted  for  six  hours — merely  a  few  drops  of 
perspiration  trickle  down  bodies  which  shine  with 
the  polished  reflection  of  metal  in  the  terrible  rays 
of  the  sun.  A  wild  luxuriance  of  flowers  hangs  from 
the  shrubs  standing  by  the  shore,  the  white  colour 
of  which  stands  out  harshly  against  the  deep  blue 
sky  ;  these  trees  fruit  and  flower  at  the  same  time, 
scattering  plentiful  and  useless  fruits  on  the  water 
like  a  hail  of  golden  apples.  My  boatmen  still 
continue  to  row,  but  they  now  sing  in  a  dreamy  man- 
ner like  that  of  men  wearied  with  healthy  fatigue, 
whilst  their  shining  teeth  are  uncovered  by  a  vacant 
smile. 

We  pass  an  inhabited  region  where  there  are 
villages,  pagodas,  and  old  churches  in  the  Hindoo  style 
that  even  the  Syrian  churches  have  adopted. 

Our  waterway  suddenly  narrows  and  is  hedged  in 
by  banks  of  fern  ;  then  we  plunge  into  dim  gloom, 
filled  with  the  scent  of  earthy  freshness  ;  we  are 
traversing  the  long  tunnel  that  the  Maharajah  has 
constructed  so  that  boats  may  reach  the  more  distant 
lagoons,  those  of  the  north,  which  we  shall  reach 
this  evening,  and  travel  on  to-morrow. 

The  noise  of  our  paddles  reverberates  through  the 
tunnel,  and  as  we  pass  other  boats  that  loom  out  of 
the  shade  like  black  shadows,  our  oarsmen  utter 
cries,  which  are  long  repeated  by  melancholy  echoes. 

Now  that  midday  has  come,  we  change  our  gang  of 
men.  Once  through  the  tunnel  we  find  ourselves 
again  in  an  open  space  dotted  with  palm-covered 
islands  ;  a  village  hidden  by  trees  stands  close  by  the 
shore,  and  fourteen  fresh  rowers  await  us  there.  Re- 
lays of  men  are  stationed  thus  at  points  awaiting 
orders  for  the  Maharajah's  boats. 

The  fresh  men  take  their  places  with  much  noise 
and  excitement,  call  out  like  merry  children,  vie 
with  each  other  in  rowing  and  laughing,  and  their 
white  teeth  sparkle  as  they  sing.  Some  are  Christians, 
and  wear  a  scapular  across  their  naked  chests  ;  others 
have  the  seal  of  Siva  painted  on  their  foreheads,  and 

5 


66  THE  HOME  OF   THE 

the  three  horizontal  lines  of  Siva  traced  in  gray  dust 
on  their  arms  and  chests. 

Palms  everywhere,  a  splendid  monotony  of  palms, 
so  many  that  one  is  wearied  and  almost  afraid  of  them. 
When  one  thinks  that  more  than  two  hundred  miles 
of  the  country  round  us  is  given  up  to  their  dominion, 
a  feeling  of  distress  is  experienced  akin  to  the  senti- 
ment that  the  ancients  used  to  name  "  the  horror 
of  forests." 

Palms  everywhere,  never-ending  palms.  There 
are  those  which  rear  their  plumed  heads  high  into 
the  air,  supported  by  long  frail  stems  ;  others  again 
which,  like  young  trees,  spring  from  the  surface  in  the 
damp  warm  earth ;  but  all  have  the  same  intense 
green  and  the  same  glossy  freshness.  They  shine 
in  the  sunlight  as  if  they  had  been  varnished,  whilst 
below  them  the  lagoons  look  like  mirrors  of  polished 
tin. 

My  boatmen  display  a  terrible  energy,  though  the 
sun  beats  directly  on  them  with  such  force  that 
white  men  could  not  survive  it.  They  row  for  hours, 
the  muscles  of  their  arms  slackening  and  tightening 
under  their  networks  of  swollen  veins,  singing  the 
while  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  Sometimes  a  sudden 
frenzy  seems  to  seize  them,  their  song  becomes 
panting  and  broken,  and  they  strike  the  water  so 
furiously  that  the  foam  commences  to  fly  and  their 
oars  break.  The  paintings  in  honour  of  Siva  dis- 
appear, washed  away  by  the  sweat  which  runs  down 
their  bodies. 

Towards  evening  the  lagoon  narrows  again,  and 
is  inclosed  by  steep  shores  covered  by  ferns  and 
trailing  plants.  Around  us  there  are  hundreds  of 
boats  lying  at  rest,  and  above  our  heads  rises  a  bridge 
of  sculptured  stone.  It  is  the  town  of  Quilon,  one 
of  the  large  towns  of  Travancore,  and,  like  that  city, 
is  embowered  in  gardens  ;  for  a  while  the  palms  are 
replaced  by  trees  more  nearly  resembling  our  own,  and 
I  can  even  discern  lawns  and  rose  bushes. 

A  large  stairway  descends  to  the  water,  and  I  can 


MAHARAJAH   OF  TRAVANCORE         67 

see  the  white  colonnaded  house  which  has  been 
uninhabited,  I  am  told,  for  a  long  while  ;  the  Dewan 
has  given  orders  that  my  evening  meal  should  be 
prepared  there.  It  is  nightfall  as  we  reach  the  shore, 
and  Indian  serving-men,  in  costumes  white  as  the 
house  itself,  hasten  to  the  steps  to  bid  me  welcome, 
and  to  offer  me  a  bouquet  of  roses  on  a  silver  salver. 
We  are  to  stop  here  an  hour  or  two  whilst  my  boat- 
men rest. 

After  supper  I  wander  round  the  lonely  garden 
and  give  myself  up  to  meditation.  I  dream  that  I 
am  in  an  old  French  garden,  fallen  somewhat  into 
neglect,  but  where  Bengal  roses  still  cluster  round 
the  paths.  The  sky  still  retains  a  note  of  sombre  red 
where  the  sun  has  set — the  same  dull  glow  that  is 
seen  on  our  warmest  summer  days. 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  calm  night,  sweet  and 
ever-haunting  impressions  of  my  childhood  days 
come  back  to  me  ;  as  usual  I  give  myself  up  to  the 
sad  play  of  my  imagination,  a  melancholy  sport  that 
I  never  weary  of  indulging  in.  It  was  in  an  abandoned 
garden  surrounded  by  woods  that  I  received  my 
first  impressions  of  nature,  and  I  dreamt  my  first 
dreams  of  the  warm  countries  on  some  burning 
August  or  September  evening  when  just  such  a  glow 
lit  up  our  flat  horizon. 

The  same  scent  of  jasmine  filled  the  air  in  those 
summer  days  of  old,  and  the  dark  wings  of  bats  and 
owls  flitted  noiselessly  across  the  copper-coloured 
sky. 

The  bats  that  fly  round  this  house  are  much  larger, 
but  their  silent  and  capricious  flight  resembles  that  of 
our  own  ;  they,  however,  belong  to  the  larger  species 
called  vampire  or  roussette,  and  their  huge  wings 
scare  away  my  dreams.  Then,  suddenly  from  under 
the  great  trees  which  encircle  the  garden  with  their 
shadows,  issues  a  sound  of  horns  and  sacred  bag- 
pipes ;  it  is  the  hour  of  Brahma,  and  I  can  hear  the 
murmurs  of  human  voices  chanting  the  evening 
prayer  in  the  recesses  of  the  temple. 


68  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

Suddenly  silence  reigns  once  more,  but  this  time 
it  is  pervaded  by  a  nameless  melancholy  that  was 
not  there  before.  The  thought  crosses  my  mind 
that  it  is  the  31st  of  December,  1899,  and  in  a  few 
hours  the  century,  which  was  that  of  my  youth,  will 
pass  away  for  ever.  The  stars  above  my  head  pur- 
suing their  almost  endless  course  fill  my  thoughts 
with  the  fearful  notion  of  eternity,  and  of  our  poor 
moth-like  existence ;  and  the  death  of  the  present 
century  and  the  birth  of  the  succeeding  one,  which 
will  be  my  last,  seem  to  be  insignificant  nothings 
when  one  thinks  of  the  endless  terrifying  flight  of 
ages.  Agonizing  thoughts  of  death  and  of  our  short 
existence  are  old  and  familiar,  but  to  be  surrounded 
by  these  woods  and  temples,  and  to  think  that  I  am 
in  the  heart  of  Brahmin  India,  gives  me  a  strange 
and  delightful  thrill ;  this  old  garden,  with  its  roses 
and  jasmines,  seems  to  conjure  up  vague  and  un- 
speakable impressions  in  which  sentiments  of  exile 
mingle  with  a  feeling  in  other  countries,  but  as 
the  years  go  by  it  becomes  dimmed,  like  everything 
else ;  this  evening  it  is  soon  blunted  by  bodily  fatigue, 
for  in  the  warm  languorous  night  sleep  quickly  over- 
takes me. 

The  stars  shine  brightly  as  we  resume  our  journey 
at  nine  o'clock  ;  our  men  are  now  rested,  and  will 
row  us  for  two  miles  to  the  village  where  a  fresh  relief 
awaits  us. 

The  slow  boats  that  we  had  already  passed  on  our 
way  begin  to  drop  behind  us  once  more ;  their 
black  outlines  are  enlarged  and  doubled  by  the  reflec- 
tions of  the  water  that  gives  them  the  appearance 
of  spectral  gondolas. 

The  many-creeked  lagoon,  which  has  now  widened 
out  like  the  sea,  soon  becomes  lit  up  by  fires  ;  they 
are  the  lanterns  of  the  fishermen  and  great  torches 
which  they  use  to  attract  fish,  burning  bundles  of 
reed,  which  they  swing  continually  in  order  to  keep 
them  alight.  All  these  flames  are  reflected  by  the 
surface  of  the  shining  water,  on  which  the  night  wind 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         69 

has  traced  a  few  delicate  ripples.  Though  the  mono- 
tonous rhythm  of  the  paddles  begins  to  make  me 
drowsy,  the  sentiment  of  the  intense  life  which 
animates  these  swamps  is  ever  present.  It  is  truly  a 
primitive  life,  however,  that  hardly  differs  from  that 
of  our  first  lake-inhabiting  ancestors. 


XI 

After  a  warm  night,  during  which  the  balanced 
swing  of  our  oars  has  never  ceased,  the  first  dawn 
of  the  new  century  rises  fresh  and  rosy  upon  a  world 
ever  hunting  and  watching  for  its  fishy  prey  in  the 
clear  morning  light.  The  immense  lagoon,  surrounded 
by  thick  clusters  of  overhanging  palms,  is  thronged 
with  innumerable  fishing-boats,  which  often  brush 
past  us  and  cause  us  to  slacken  ;  sometimes  these 
boats  are  stationary,  at  others  they  wander  along 
stealthily,  making  as  little  noise  as  possible  ;  men 
stand  in  superb  postures  on  the  floating  planks,  hold- 
ing nets,  lines,  and  lances  in  their  hands,  watching 
all  that  moves  in  the  water.  Birds,  pelicans,  and 
herons  of  all  kinds  stand  on  the  muddy  shore  and 
dart  their  inquisitive  eyes  in  all  directions,  so  that 
besides  hooks,  nets,  and  barbed  forks,  there  are 
always  hundreds  of  beaks  on  the  watch.  These  vora- 
cious multitudes  are  attracted  and  maintained  by 
the  shoals  of  cold-blooded  and  silent  little  beings  of 
which  the  lagoon  is  the  inexhaustible  reservoir  ; 
and  the  commencement  of  the  new  century  will  do 
nothing  to  change  a  mode  of  life  which  must  have 
existed  since  the  beginning  of  time. 

As  the  banks  draw  closer  we  can  perceive  under 
the  great  palms  tiny  human  habitations  belonging 
to  people  whose  very  existence  is  dependent  on  that 
of  the  trees,  they  are  barriers  made  from  palm  fibres 
extending  from  one  tree  to  another,  thatches  made 
from  palm,  mats,  nets,  and  cords  made  from  palm. 

These  precious  trees  not  only  give  them  shelter, 
fruit,  and  oil,  but  also  supply  nearly  every  necessity 


70  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

of  those  that  live  under  them,  and  indeed  this  part  of 
India  could  exist  without  the  rice-fields  which  wave 
here  and  there  in  the  wind-like  expanses  of  bluish  silk. 

The  lagoons  gradually  expand,  and  a  slight  but 
favourable  wind  rises,  so  my  boatmen  hoist  a  mat 
some  three  or  four  metres  high  upon  a  mast.  What 
with  sails  and  paddles,  our  speed  grows  faster  across 
this  peaceful  little  ocean  whose  shores  are  forests, 
that  have  a  bluish  look  in  the  distance.  Helped  by 
the  wind  which  fills  the  mast,  the  men  slacken  their 
energies  and  commence  to  hum  a  different  song,  a 
sleepy  melody  which  issues  through  their  closed  teeth, 
and  seems  like  a  never-ending  peal  of  bells  heard  from 
a  great  distance. 

It  is  almost  midnight  in  France,  the  hour  at  which 
the  twentieth  century  begins,  and  the  New  Year's 
Festival  should  be  at  its  height  in  our  land  of  icy 
gloom. 

The  wind  commences  to  fall,  and  at  midday  there 
is  a  dead  calm,  and  the  heat  is  like  that  of  a  stove. 
We  make  for  the  palm-covered  shore  in  order  to 
land  the  morning  relay  of  men,  who  withdraw  with 
profound  salutes.  Our  new  gang  of  men  set  out 
at  a  furious  speed  ;  they  are  of  a  lighter  bronze  and 
wear  necklets  and  earrings,  and  sacred  emblems  are 
traced  in  gray  dust  on  their  breasts.  Now  the  air 
bears  on  us  with  an  unaccustomed  weight,  and  seems 
as  if  charged  with  warm  vapour.  The  sky,  the  dull 
surface  of  the  lagoon,  and  the  surrounding  objects 
look  faded  and  tarnished  in  the  excessive  light,  whilst 
their  outlines  seem  mingled  and  confused  in  a  glow 
of  dazzling  pallor.  In  marked  contrast  with  this 
dimness  are  the  drops  of  water  which  ripple  by  our 
boat  and  trickle  from  the  paddles  and  seem  to  shine 
from  the  foreheads  and  chests  of  our  rowers. 

Towards  three  o'clock  we  cross  the  boundary  which 
separates  Travancore  from  the  little  kingdom  of 
Cochin  ;  but  the  surface  of  the  water  and  the  palm 
forests  that  have  followed  us  since  our  departure 
remain  unchanged. 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         71 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  however,  towns  ap- 
pear on  both  banks  which  lie  about  the  same  distance 
from  one  another  as  those  of  a  great  river. 

The  town  on  the  right  bank,  the  one  close  to  us,  is 
Ernaculum,  the  capital  where  the  Rajah  resides  ;  by 
the  water's  edge  there  are  four  Syrian  churches  which 
look  like  pagodas,  a  great  Brahmin  temple,  barracks 
and  schools,  red-coloured  buildings  standing  on  red- 
dish soil,  but  neither  a  boat  nor  a  human  being  by 
the  landing-place.  The  dwellings  of  the  haughty 
Brahmins  are  concealed  under  the  bluish  shade  of 
the  encroaching  palms,  or  are  hidden  amidst  trailing 
plants  and  ferns,  and  lie  far  removed  from  these  sad, 
pretentious  buildings. 

Signs  of  life  are,  however,  visible  farther  along  the 
left  bank.  First  we  pass  Matancheri,  an  Indian 
trading  town,  with  its  thousands  of  little  houses 
nestling  under  the  trees.  The  town  is  situated  on  a 
bay  communicating  with  the  ocean,  and  countless 
boats  are  riding  at  anchor  ;  sailing-boats  with  strange 
masts  belonging  to  the  olden  times,  which  have  never 
ceased  to  plough  the  Arabian  Sea  on  their  way  to 
trade  with  Muscat,  some  even  taking  grains  and  spice 
to  Bussorah  and  the  head  of  the  Persian  Gulf.  A 
good  deal  farther  on  we  come  to  the  old  Cochin  of 
the  Dutch  and  Portuguese,  now  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  other  masters  ;  here  and  there  is  a  port  where 
modern  vessels  vomit  forth  their  clouds  of  dense 
black  smoke. 

In  the  middle  of  the  lagoon,  and  far  removed  from 
the  three  dissimilar  towns,  there  is  a  wooded  island,  a 
sort  of  park  filled  with  old  trees,  to  which  my  boat 
directs  its  course  (half  concealed  by  verdure).  I  can 
see  white  stairways  and  a  white  landing-place,  and 
farther  back  an  old  white  palace.  It  appears  that  I 
am  to  be  quartered  here  by  order  of  the  Rajah  of  this 
country,  whose  guest  I  am.  Neglect  and  decay  are 
apparent  everywhere,  and  the  house,  standing  amidst 
lawns  and  huge  trees,  reminds  me  of  the  enchanted 
home  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  and  the  gathering 


72  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

twilight  renders  my  arrival  at  the  lonely  isle  more 
melancholy  still. 

As  at  Quilon,  white-robed  serving-men  throng  the 
steps  and  offer  me  roses,  and  on  my  way  I  pass 
through  an  exquisite  old  garden,  with  straight  walks 
overhung  with  roses  and  jasmine,  fashioned  in  the 
olden  style. 

There  is  nothing  but  the  house  on  the  island,  and 
I  am  alone  in  the  house.  During  the  times  when  the 
territory  of  Cochin  belonged  to  the  Low  Countries, 
this  mansion  was  the  residence  of  the  Dutch  Governor. 
It  is  as  massive  as  a  fortress,  and  the  galleries  and 
verandas  form  a  charming  series  of  festooned  arches, 
such  as  are  seen  in  an  old  mosque.  Within,  the 
colonial  luxury  of  former  days,  immense  whitewashed 
rooms  carpeted  by  old  mats  of  a  fineness  that  is  un- 
known now  ;  precious  old  wood  carvings  ;  furniture 
made  in  India  after  European  models  of  quaint  shape 
and  antiquated  style  ;  on  the  walls  coloured  prints 
representing  silk,  which  has  faded  to  a  delicious  tint. 

A  messenger  has  been  dispatched  to  warn  me  that 
I  shall  not  see  the  Rajah  who  offers  me  hospitality,  as 
he  is  at  present  in  mourning.  A  little  prince  of  the 
blood,  who  was  quite  young,  almost  a  baby,  has  just 
closed  his  black  eyes  for  ever,  and  the  funeral  rites 
absorb  the  attention  of  everybody  of  the  palace. 

I  would  have  much  preferred  to  stop  at  Matancheri, 
in  some  humble  "  Travellers'  Rest,"  where  I  would 
have  been  free  to  mingle  with  the  evening  life  of  the 
people,  than  to  reside  in  this  official  solitude.  Both 
here  and  at  Travancore  I  am  in  India,  at  the  same 
time  shut  out  from  it. 

The  well-mannered  and  silent  serving-men,  whose 
movements  have  something  stealthy  about  them, 
light  the  lamps  hanging  from  the  fretted  arches  ;  and 
when  I  have  finished  my  prisoner's  repast,  which  is 
served  at  a  table  decorated  somewhat  strangely  with 
flowers  and  leaves,  I  wander  into  the  garden  to  see 
the  first  sunset  of  the  century.  A  dull  glow  still 
pervades  the  eastern  horizon  on  which  the  trees  trace 


MAHARAJAH  OF    TRAVANCORE         73 

black  hieroglyphics ;  daylight  lingers  for  a  few 
moments,  and  owls  and  huge  bats  with  noiseless 
wings  circle  madly  through  the  still  warm  air.  Then 
all  at  once  the  stars  commence  to  shine,  and  night 
falls  quite  suddenly. 


XII 

In  the  morning,  directly  the  red  sun  has  appeared, 
my  boat  is  in  readiness  at  the  foot  of  the  great  stair- 
way to  take  me  across  the  lagoon  towards  Matancheri, 
where  I  am  to  visit  the  Jews'  quarters. 

After  the  destruction  of  the  second  temple  of 
Jerusalem,  which  occurred  in  the  year  3828  of  Crea- 
tion, 3168  of  Tribulation,  and  8  of  the  Christian  era, 
about  10,000  Jews  and  Jewesses  came  to  Malabar 
and  settled  at  Cranganore,  which  at  that  time  was 
called  Mahodraptna.  They  were  received  with  toler- 
ance, and  from  then  till  now  this  little  colony,  which 
is  as  much  shut  off  from  the  nearest  Indians  as  it  is 
from  the  rest  of  the  world,  has  kept  its  ancient  tra- 
ditions intact  just  like  some  historic  curiosity  in  a 
museum. 

Matancheri,  which  must  be  crossed  from  one  end 
to  the  other  in  order  to  reach  the  town  of  the  "  white 
Jews  "  (as  they  are  called  here),  is  a  sort  of  purely 
native  market,  where  all  the  faces  have  a  bronze 
tinge,  and  where  the  open  wooden  shops  clustering  at 
the  foot  of  slender-stalked  palms  look  low  and  in- 
significant. 

I  had  already  proceeded  more  than  half  a  mile,  and 
my  eyes  had  grown  quite  accustomed  to  the  native 
aspect  of  the  place,  when  the  road  suddenly  turned, 
and  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  sinister-looking  old  street 
that  had  the  appearance  of  being  strangely  out  of 
place  ;  high  stone  houses  closely  packed  together, 
sullen-looking  fa9ades  with  narrow  windows  like  those 
of  colder  countries.  The  faces  of  Jews  were  visible 
everywhere — at  the  windows,  doors,  and  in  the 
street — and  their  appearance  was  as  surprising  as  the 


74  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

sudden  change  in  the  character  of  the  dwellings.  The 
decaying  sadness  and  walled-in  isolation  of  this  town 
seemed  to  assort  ill  with  its  setting  of  sky  and  palms  ; 
after  taking  this  sudden  turning  one  is  no  longer  in 
India,  and  the  mind  becomes  bewildered,  and  we  no 
longer  know  where  we  are  ;  perhaps  in  the  corner  of  a 
Leyden  or  Amsterdam  ghetto  that  has  been  trans- 
ported to  a  land  whose  tropical  sun  has  baked  and 
cleft  its  walls.  Doubtless  this  quarter  was  built  by 
the  Dutch  in  imitation  of  those  of  the  Mother  Country 
about  the  time  of  the  early  colonizations,  when  the 
art  of  adapting  buildings  to  the  climate  was  not 
understood  ;  and  after  their  departure  these  Jews 
of  Cranganore  must  have  taken  possession  of  the 
abandoned  dwellings.  Jews,  nothing  but  Jews,  a 
pallid  Jewry,  whose  blood  has  been  impoverished  by 
the  stifling  houses  and  the  Indian  climate  contrary 
to  all  recognized  theory ;  two  thousand  years  of 
residence  in  Malabar  have  not  in  any  way  modified 
Jewish  faces.  They  are  the  same  people,  dressed  in 
the  same  long  robes,  that  one  meets  at  Jerusalem  or  at 
Tiberius  ;  young  women  with  delicate  features,  old 
wretches  with  hooked  noses,  sly-looking  children  with 
pink  and  white  complexions,  who  wear  curl-papers 
over  each  ear  just  as  their  brothers  do  in  Canaan. 

These  folk  come  to  their  doorsteps  to  see  the 
passing  stranger,  for  smiling  welcome,  and  I  should 
doubtless  be  courteously  received  at  any  house  that 
I  might  visit. 

To-day  there  are,  at  the  most,  but  a  few  hundreds 
of  these  exiles  who,  as  tradition  tells,  once  numbered 
ten  thousand  ;  a  sojourn  which  has  lasted  nearly  two 
thousand  years,  and  the  depressing  climate,  have  weak- 
ened even  their  enduring  race  ;  it  appears  that  they 
live  by  usury  and  other  underhand  commerce,  and 
even  when  they  are  rich  pretend  not  to  be.  The  in- 
teriors of  the  houses  of  two  or  three  of  the  chief  in- 
habitants, where  I  rested  awhile,  presented  the  same 
aspect  of  ruin,  decay  and  filth,  together  with  semi- 
darkness  and  the  smell  of  a  wild  beasts'  den ;  I  saw 


MAHARAJAH  OF   TRAVANCORE          75 

old  furniture  in  the  European  style,  which  must  have 
dated  from  the  time  of  the  Dutch,  perishing  from 
rottenness  ;  mosaic  images  and  Hebrew  inscriptions 
ranged  round  the  walls. 

The  synagogue  is  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  has  a  J 
melancholy-looking  little  belfry,  quite  warped  by  time  ^  t 
and  split  with  heat.  After  having  passed  the  first 
door,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  courtyard  whose  walls 
are  as  high  as  those  of  a  prison.  The  sanctuary 
occupies  the  centre,  and  though  it  is  but  eight  o'clock, 
the  whitewashed  temple  gleams  in  the  morning  sun. 
There  is  perhaps  no  other  synagogue  in  the  world 
where  an  ancient  style  of  decoration  of  such  an  un- 
known manner  is  preserved.  The  crude  colours, 
which  time  has  faded  a  little,  have  a  singular  charm, 
and  there  are  green  doors  painted  with  strange 
flowers,  porcelain  pavements  of  a  marvellous  blue, 
milky  white  walls,  glowings  of  red  and  gold  round 
the  tabernacle,  and  the  surprising  radiance  of  many 
columns  and  gratings  of  turned  copper  which  have 
been  polished  like  mirrors  by  the  continual  rubbing 
of  human  hands.  Many  multi-coloured  crystal  lustres 
of  ancient  make,  that  must  have  come  from  Europe 
at  the  time  of  the  early  colonization,  hang  from  the 
ceiling. 

Some  sallow-faced,  long-nosed  men  dressed  in  long 
robes,  who  were  mumbling  prayers,  rise,  book  in  hand, 
to  welcome  me,  and  a  tottering  old  rabbi,  who  seems 
a  hundred  years  old  at  least,  advances  to  meet  me. 
The  magnificence  of  the  carefully  turned  copper 
columns  is  first  pointed  out  to  me,  and  I  am  asked  to 
note  the  extraordinary  polish.  Then  my  attention  is 
directed  to  the  really  priceless  pavement  of  blue 
porcelain,  so  rare  that  one  scarcely  dares  to  walk 
upon  it ;  it  was  made  in  China  six  hundred  years  ago, 
and  brought  here  by  sea  at  great  expense. 

Finally  the  tabernacle,  which  was  covered  by  a  long 
silk  cover  worked  in  gold  thread,  is  unbared  ;  it  con- 
tains tiaras  set  with  gems  of  a  design  primitive  as  the 
crown  of  Solomon,  which  on  certain  occasions  serve 


76  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

to  deck  the  head  of  the  ancient  rabbi ;  there  are  also 
holy  books  and  rolls  of  parchment,  wrapped  in  cases 
of  black  silk  embroidered  with  silver,  whose  age  can 
no  longer  be  ascertained. 

At  last  the  relic  of  relics  is  disclosed  :  the  bronzed 
tablet,  that  priceless  record  on  which  were  written 
some  three  centuries  after  the  arrival  of  the  Jews  in 
India,  in  the  year  4139  of  Creation,  3479  of  Tribula- 
tion, 319  of  this  Christian  era,  the  rights  and  privi- 
leges granted  to  them  by  the  king  who  then  reigned 
in  Malabar. 

The  characters  graven  on  these  venerable  tables 
read  somewhat  after  this  fashion  :  "  By  the  help  of 
God  who  made  the  world  and  set  up  kings,  we,  Ravi 
Vurma,  Emperor  of  Malabar,  in  the  36th  year  of  our 
glorious  reign  here  in  the  fort  of  Maderecatla  Cranga- 
nore,  grant  these  rights  to  the  worthy  Joseph  Rabban. 
1st.  That  he  may  make  proselytes  among  the  five 
castes.  2nd.  That  he  may  enjoy  all  honours ;  that 
he  may  ride  elephants  and  horses  with  all  due  pomp  ; 
that  his  titles  may  be  proclaimed  by  heralds  ;  that  he 
may  use  lights  in  the  daytime  and  that  he  may  make 
use  of  all  manner  of  musical  instruments ;  that  he  is 
allowed  to  carry  a  large  parasol,  and  to  walk  on 
white  carpet  which  may  be  spread  out  before  him  ; 
finally  that  he  may  cause  marches  to  be  sounded  on 
his  armour  as  he  advances  under  a  canopy  of  state. 
We  grant  these  rights  to  Joseph  Rabban,  and  to  72 
Jewish  landowners,  together  with  the  government 
of  his  own  people,  who  are  beholden  to  obey  him, 
and  to  him  and  his  heirs  so  long  as  the  sun  may  shine 
on  the  world. 

"  This  charter  is  given  in  the  presence  of  the  King 
of  Travancore,  Trecenore,  Calli  Quilon,  Krengoot, 
Tamorin,  Tamorin  Paliathachen,  and  Calistria. 

"  Written  by  the  Secretary,  Kalambi  Kelapour. 
As  Parumpadpa,  the  Rajah  of  Cochin,  is  my  heir,  his 
name  is  not  included  among  these. 

"  Signed  Cherumprumal  Ravi  Vurma, 

"  Emperor  of  Malabar." 


MAHARAJAH  OF   TRAVANCORE         77 

Above  the  synagogue,  close  by  the  side  of  the  J/ 
cracked  belfry,  there  is  a  lofty  room  to  which  I  am 
taken  :  here  everything  is  in  a  state  of  unconceivable 
decay  and  dilapidation  ;  there  are  shapeless  beams 
and  ruinous  walls,  and  the  flooring  is  full  of  holes, 
and  bats  slumber  near  the  black  ceiling.  Through 
narrow  windows,  pierced  like  loopholes  through  the 
thick  walls,  the  little  Dutch  town,  now  passed  into 
Israelitish  hands,  is  seen  standing  sad,  gray,  and  worn 
at  the  feet  of  the  huge  palms,  whose  great  heads  fill 
the  background,  and  which  merge  at  once  into  the 
forest,  whose  changeless  green  extends  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach.  On  the  other  side  we  overlook  the 
thatched  roof  of  a  very  ancient  Brahmin  temple,  whose 
low  copper  cupola  seems  to  crush  it  against  the 
surface  of  the  burning  soil. 

This  lofty  room,  this  ruin  full  of  shade  and  spiders'  / 
webs,  is  the  school  of  the  little  "  white  Jews."     About  * 
twenty  of  them  are  assembled  here,  taking  advantage 
of  the  early   morning  freshness   in   order  to   study 
Leviticus  ;  a  rabbi,  who  resembles  the  prophet  Elias, 
traces  passages  of  Hebrew  on  a  blackboard — for  these 
children  of  exile  still  speak  the  ancestral  language  now 
fallen  into  neglect  amongst  their  Eastern  kin. 

After  the  quarter  of  the  "  white  Jews  "  conies  that     \ 
of  the  "  black  Jews,"  who  are  the  rivals  and  enemies     '  s 
of  the  first.     I  had  been  warned  that  I  should  give 
much  offence  if  I  did  not  go  to  see  them  and  their 
synagogue   after   having   visited   the   others.     Some 
were  even  stationed  at  the  entrance  of  their  street, 
waiting  to  see  if  I  would  come,  whilst  above  me  I 
could  perceive  rows  of  pale,  emaciated  "  white  Jews'  ' 
faces    behind    the    half-raised    curtains,    or    looking 
curiously  to  see  which  direction  I  might  take. 

Let  me  go  to  see  the  poor  "  black  Jews,"  who  pre- 
tend that  they  arrived  from  India  several  centuries 
before  the  "  white  Jews,"  notwithstanding  that  the 
white  ones  proclaim  disdainfully  that  they  are  only 
ancient  pariahs  who  have  been  converted  by  their 
teachings. 


78  THE  HOME   OF   THE 

They  are  more  tanned  than  their  neighbours,  but 
not  black,  far  from  it,  though  they  appear  to  be  half- 
bred  between  Israelites  and  Indians.  They  hasten 
to  bid  me  welcome.  Their  synagogue  much  re- 
sembles its  rival,  but  is  less  rich,  and  has  neither  the 
beautiful  copper  columns  nor  the  marvellous  Chinese 
porcelain  pavement.  Just  now  they  are  celebrating 
a  service  for  the  children,  who  are  assembled  there 
with  their  noses  buried  in  their  books,  and  who  rock 
themselves  like  bears  in  the  orthodox  manner  of  the 
Mosaic  rite.  The  rabbi  made  bitter  plaints  about  the 
pride  of  their  rivals  of  the  neighbouring  street,  who 
would  never  contract  marriage  nor  even  hold  inter- 
course with  his  parishioners.  To  crown  their  misery, 
he  told  me  that  the  Grand  Rabbi  of  Jerusalem,  to 
whom  a  collective  plaint  for  intervention  had  been 
addressed,  had  contented  himself  by  replying  with 
this  rather  offensive  generality  :  "  It  is  only  sparrows 
of  the  same  colour  that  nest  together." 

The  granite-walled  temple  with  the  copper  cupola 
and  the  roof  of  thatch  that  we  first  saw  from  the 
summit  is  one  of  the  most  primitive  and  sullen-looking 
buildings  of  this  coast ;  it  is  needless  to  say  that  it 
is  as  impenetrable  as  the  temples  of  other  places.  In 
an  empty  and  dismal  courtyard,  whose  high  granite 
walls  collect  the  stifling  rays  of  the  sun,  there  are 
some  strange  objects  of  iron  and  bronze,  many- 
branched  candelabra,  I  am  told,  whose  surfaces  have 
been  corroded  by  the  storms  of  centuries. 

Close  to,  and  communicating  with  the  temple  by 
galleries,  is  an  ancient  palace  of  the  Rajahs  of  Cochin, 
abandoned  some  time  since  for  the  new  residence  of 
Ernaculum  that  lies  upon  the  opposite  shore.  It 
looks  like  a  heavy,  square,  old  fortress,  though  it  is 
impossible  to  determine  the  precise  age  of  a  building 
in  this  country  where  chronology  is  interwoven  with 
fables  and  symbols  ;  but  it  gives  the  impression  of 
extreme  antiquity,  and  the  moment  we  enter  we  have 
the  impression  of  an  unknown  something  that  must 
date  from  a  ruder  age. 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE       79 

The  few  little  windows,  all  of  which  have  stone 
seats  carved  underneath  them,  serve  to  show  the 
thickness  of  the  walls.  All  the  staircases,  even  those 
leading  to  the  rooms  of  state,  are  steep,  dark,  and 
stifling,  hardly  wide  enough  for  a  single  person,  and 
have  a  look  of  childish  savagery.  The  rooms,  too, 
are  long,  low,  and  dark,  and  have  an  oppressive  and 
prison-like  air. 

The  ceilings  are  carved  into  complicated  panels, 
roses,  and  pendentives  out  of  precious  woods  that 
still  retain  their  deep  colours,  with  here  and  there  a 
few  traces  of  painting.  The  walls,  on  the  contrary, 
have  been  left  flat,  and  are  absolutely  smooth  from 
one  end  to  the  other  ;  at  the  first  glance  I  thought 
that  they  were  covered  by  a  stuff  of  many-coloured 
design,  but  the  semi-darkness  deceived  me,  for  they 
are  painted.  The  whole  palace  is  decorated  with 
frescoes  ;  some  are  slightly  damaged  by  time,  but 
others  are  in  as  perfect  a  state  of  preservation  as 
some  of  the  paintings  on  the  Egyptian  tombs.  Oh  ! 
what  astonishing  frescoes,  frescoes  of  a  special  type, 
in  which  art  displays  a  prodigal  and  exuberant 
luxury  :  masses  of  nude  forms,  in  which  anatomical 
details  are  closely  reproduced,  though  the  Indian 
type  of  beauty  is  somewhat  exaggerated  and  the 
wrists  too  fine  and  the  breasts  too  prominent. 

Confused  swarms  of  interlacing  arms,  intermingled 
thighs,  arched  backs,  and  swelling  chests.  The 
ankles  and  the  wrists  are  braceleted,  the  foreheads 
are  crowned,  and  necklets  adorn  the  throats.  Animals 
also  figure  in  this  debauch  of  copper-coloured  flesh. 

There  is  not  a  trace  of  furniture  ;  all  is  empty. 
Nothing  but  complicated  ceilings,  which  seem  to 
crush  everything  with  their  weight,  and  these  frescoes 
resembling  tapestries,  that  cover  the  walls  of  all 
these  galleries  and  prolong  the  nightmare  of  animal 
and  human  flesh  into  the  remotest  and  darkest 
chambers. 

The  centre  room,  larger  and  higher  than  the  rest, 
is  the  one  in  which  the  rajahs  were  crowned ;  there 


8o  THE  HOME   OF  THE 

the  frescoes  represent  a  group  of  cloud-encircled 
goddesses  who  are  in  travail  in  the  midst  of  a  huge 
crowd  of  nude  spectators. 

The  sleeping-chamber  of  the  rajahs  is  the  only 
room  that  is  furnished  now,  and  there  a  boat-shaped 
bed,  made  of  panels  of  precious  woods,  still  offers  the 
repose  of  its  brocaded  mattress. 

The  bed  is  suspended  from  the  ceiling  by  red  silken 
cords,  for  serving-men  were  accustomed  to  rock  the 
sovereign  to  sleep  after  his  meals.  Around  the  royal 
couch  the  wall  frescoes  are  of  the  most  sensuous 
kind,  and  display  an  unbridled  lasciviousness,  and 
goddesses,  men,  animals,  monkeys,  bears,  and  gazelles 
roll  their  frenzied  eyes  in  paroxysms  of  desire. 

There  is  one  other  much  dilapidated  room  in  which 
a  great  bronze  lamp  burns  smokily  both  night  and 
day  ;  here  I  am  not  allowed  to  enter,  as  somewhere 
in  the  dim  background  there  is  a  communication 
with  the  temples. 

It  will  soon  be  the  midday  hour,  when  every  one 
must  seek  the  shelter  of  a  roof,  and  as  my  shady 
island  is  too  far  distant,  I  will  go  to  Cochin  and 
seek  some  "  Traveller's  Rest." 

In  a  little  hired  carriage  drawn  by  two  fleet  runners 
I  pass  once  more  through  the  Indian  streets  of 
Matancheri,  which  were  so  lately  thronged  with  all 
the  types  and  costumes  of  Malabar  ;  now,  however, 
everything  seems  overcome  by  midday  slumber. 

I  soon  reach  Cochin,  which  is  built  upon  a  sand- 
bank stretching  between  the  sea  and  the  lagoon  ;  an 
old  colonial  town  that  has  undergone  few  changes, 
and  in  which  Dutch  influence  is  still  visible. 

The  little  house  which  gives  me  shelter  overlooks 
the  shore  and  the  boundless  ocean. 

The  great  blue  sea  of  Arabia  stretches  before  me, 
and  its  sands  glitter  with  a  rose  and  white  splendour 
under  the  vertical  rays  of  the  sun  ;  crows  and  fish- 
ing-eagles fly  around,  uttering  joyful  cries,  whilst  a 
calm  swell  throws  its  breakers  on  the  shore  with 
peaceful  monotony.  Farther  out,  where  the  sea  is 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         81 

of  a  blue  and  polished  tinge,  the  fins  and  backs  of 
sharks  that  are  watching  for  their  prey  are  visible 
from  time  to  time.  But  amidst  all  this  dazzling 
magnificence  the  horizon  is  no  longer  to  be  seen. 

Behind  the  hut  which  shelters  me,  and  which  is 
open  on  every  side,  the  wood  of  coco-nut  palms  com- 
mences at  once,  and  I  can  see  the  green  light  that 
filters  through  them  ;  from  my  windows  long  branches 
and  long  feathered  tufts  of  palm  droop  towards  the 
ground,  lit  up  with  a  green  and  luminous  trans- 
parence that  is  exaggerated  by  the  dull  green  back- 
ground. Now  a  young  Indian  climbs  noiselessly  up 
a  trunk,  smooth  as  a  column,  ascending  by  aid  of  his 
toes  with  the  ease  and  rapidity  of  a  monkey  in  order 
to  obtain  the  juice  that  comes  from  the  veins  of  the 
leaves,  and  which  is  used  as  a  drink  ;  and  this  climb- 
ing man,  who  seems  half  animal  hi  this  silent  and 
swift  ascent,  is  the  last  impression  that  permeated 
through  my  half-closed  eyes. 

How  I  love  to  feel  the  deep  and  shining  sea  so 
near  to  me,  and  to  hear  its  mighty  throbbing !  It 
is  the  highway  that  leads  freely  to  all  lands,  the 
highway  where  one  can  breathe  and  see  far  around, 
and  it  is  the  road  that  I  have  always  known.  Truly 
life  is  more  gladsome  in  its  vicinity,  and  I  find  my 
old  self  again  now  that  I  am  near  it  once  more.  For 
an  instant  I  can  imagine  that  I  am  no  longer  in  this 
shady,  confined,  and  incomprehensible  Indian  land. 

XIII 

After  my  siesta  it  is  time  to  return  to  my  isle  of 
the  enchanted  palace. 

The  sun  is  setting  as  I  take  my  final  departure  in 
the  boat  with  fourteen  rowers  which  is  to  take  me  to 
Trichur,  the  most  northerly  town  in  the  kingdom  of 
Cochin,  a  journey  that  will  occupy  the  entire  night. 
As  usual  our  start  is  magnificent.  The  rowers,  who 
are  quite  rested,  seem  to  snatch  shovels  full  of  water 
at  each  stroke  of  the  paddles,  and  a  sail  has  been 

6 


82  THE  HOME  OF   THE 

hoisted  to  help  us.  Once  more  we  take  the  easy  road 
of  the  lagoon,  and  the  palm-covered  banks  fly  quickly 
past  us. 

The  evening  sun,  fast  sinking  behind  the  rampart 
of  eternal  verdure,  droops  and  dies  as  ever  in  flames 
of  rosy  gold.  A  cloudless  sky  of  strangely  lovely 
tint  is  spread  above  our  tranquil  world  ;  once  more 
we  are  in  the  midst  of  fisheries,  boats,  and  spread- 
out  nets,  surrounded  by  the  lake-like  life  we  saw  last 
evening — that  life  of  olden  days  which  still  lingers 
upon  these  Indian  lagoons,  curtained  in  on  all  sides 
by  forests  of  palms,  whose  mystery  and  depth  seem 
increased  by  the  growing  twilight. 

My  boatmen  hum  once  more  through  their  closed 
mouths  the  song  of  yesterday.  It  appears  that  this 
refrain  is  suited  to  the  hours  of  ease  when,  thanks  to 
a  favouring  wind,  they  can  paddle  more  heedlessly. 
Fishermen  on  the  other  boats  chant  the  same  melody, 
which  does  not  seem  to  issue  from  human  throats, 
but  rather  resembles  a  distant  peal  of  church  bells 
floating  across  the  limpid  waters  from  all  directions. 

This  "  Land  of  Charity  "  is  peopled  by  thousands 
of  beings  who,  beneath  their  shady  palms,  dream 
with  a  confiding  simplicity  of  resurrection  ;  Chris- 
tians, Brahmins,  or  Israelites  all  clinging  to  their  old 
and  venerable  faiths  which,  however  they  may  differ 
amongst  each  other,  seem  to  contain  a  shadow  of  the 
same  truths.  I  dream,  too,  of  the  childish  hope  that 
possessed  me,  that  I  might  have  been  able  to  seize 
a  few  shreds  of  the  intangible  truth,  that  truth 
which  is  so  sullenly  guarded  in  the  heart  of  this 
Brahmin  faith.  But  no  ;  here,  as  everywhere  else, 
I  am  the  eternal  stranger,  the  perpetual  wanderer, 
who  only  knows  how  to  appreciate  the  charm  of 
strange  surroundings.  My  dream  is  over  too,  for  I 
am  leaving,  nursed  by  songs,  in  a  handsome  boat ; 
but  even  as  it  is  I  am  amused,  and  perhaps  this  is 
the  path  which  destiny  has  traced  out  for  me,  and 
with  which  I  must  be  content. 
The  curtains  of  forest  which  are  drawn  all  round 


MAHARAJAH  OF  TRAVANCORE         83 

the  horizon  have  an  ever-deepening  tone  of  blue,  a 
blue  that  merges  into  black  where  the  sun  has  sunk. 
Occasionally  their  monotonous  line  is  broken  by 
some  gigantic  tree  that  rears  its  black  shadow  against 
the  sky.  The  planet  Venus  is  the  first  of  the  stars 
to  glimmer  through  the  fading  tones  of  rosy  gold, 
then  the  moon  appears  by  her  side,  but  it  is  a  moon 
such  as  one  rarely  sees,  and  only  in  the  limpid  air  of 
hot  countries.  The  crescent  is  faintly  outlined  by 
a  thin,  luminous  edge,  yet  the  whole  surface  can  be 
distinguished  with  a  wonderful  clearness  ;  one  feels 
that  it  is  lit  up  from  behind  and  that  it  is  no  simple 
disc,  but  a  ball  suspended  in  transparent  emptiness, 
and  in  spite  of  all  the  principles  we  have  acquired, 
this  somewhat  shocks  our  primordial  notions  of 
equilibrium  and  weight.  Darkness  has  at  last  over- 
taken us,  and  the  boatmen  have  lit  their  fires  in  order 
to  attract  the  fish.  The  songs  have  died  away,  and 
all  seems  to  sleep,  all  but  the  sinewy  limbs  of  my 
fourteen  rowers,  who  hurry  me  towards  the  north 
during  the  whole  night. 


XIV 

Wednesday,  3rd  January 

There  is  a  sudden  conflagration  as  the  sun  rises 
from  behind  the  thicket  of  palms.  My  boat  had 
touched  ground  several  times  during  the  night,  and 
now  rests  finally  in  the  mud  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  of 
red  earth.  We  have  reached  the  port  of  Trichur, 
where  the  lagoons  end,  and  the  waters  are  crowded 
by  hundreds  of  other  slumbering,  gondola-prowed 
boats. 

Trichur,  a  very  ancient  and  conservative  Brahmin 
town,  stands  half  a  mile  farther  on  amongst  the 
trees,  but  hardly  any  one  is  stirring  there  when  I 
arrive  in  my  ox-cart.  The  palms  which  shelter  the 
thatched  wooden  houses  are  shaken  by  a  cold  wind, 
which  raises  clouds  of  fiery-coloured  dust  that  looks 


84  THE  HOME  OF  THE 

almost  like  powdered  blood.  With  its  little  shops 
peopled  by  grain  sellers  and  copper  workers,  and  its 
lanes  of  hairy  banyans,  this  town  resembles  all  those 
other  towns  of  Malabar  which,  hidden  amidst  the 
woods,  continue  their  ancient  modes  of  existence  far 
from  the  coast  and  all  modern  things  ;  but  its  temple 
is  particularly  large  and  terrible,  and  it  bears  the 
name  of  Tivu  Sivaya  peria  vur,  which  means  Saint- 
Siva-great-town. 

I  alight  in  front  of  this  temple,  which  is  a  fortress 
as  well,  and  which  sustained  the  siege  of  Tippoo,  the 
formidable  Sultan  of  Mysore,  and  climb  up  slopes  on 
which  herds  of  indolent  sheep  and  zebus  are  still 
sleeping.  On  seeing  my  approach  some  Brahmins, 
who  had  stationed  themselves  in  a  doorway  to  medi- 
tate and  to  watch  the  sun  rise,  hasten  anxiously  to 
meet  me.  Did  the  stranger  think  ?  .  .  .  But  I  tell 
them  that  I  know,  and  that  I  had  merely  come  to 
admire  the  sculptured  towers  from  a  respectful  dis- 
tance. On  hearing  this  the  Brahmins,  with  many 
smiling  salutes,  retire  to  the  sanctuary  without 
troubling  further  about  me.  The  heavy  walls  are 
whitewashed,  but  the  four  doors,  crowned  with 
monstrous  sculptured  towers  that  face  the  four  winds 
of  heaven,  have  still  retained  the  warm  and  dark 
colour  of  Indian  granite.  These  four  red  towers  date 
from  the  earliest  ages,  and  are  decked  with  ornaments, 
colonnades,  and  barbaric  figures. 

Were  it  not  for  the  wintry  gusts  of  wind  which 
sweep  by  everything,  and  which  twist  the  hanging 
branches  of  the  banyan  trees,  raising  huge  clouds  of 
reddish-coloured  dust,  there  would  be  nothing  stir- 
ring in  the  town  of  Siva.  By  the  roadsides  there  are 
peaceful  nooks  under  trees  where  the  people  may 
pray  ;  in  such  spots  we  should  have  placed  crucifixes 
in  the  olden  days  ;  here  these  shady  cross  ways  are 
decked  with  granite  altars,  symbolic  stories,  and 
statues. 

There  are  but  few  passers-by  ;  some  dreamy-eyed 
men  going  to  the  temple,  beautiful  and  proud  in 


MAHARAJAH  OF   TRAVANCORE          85 

their  nudity,  with  their  black  masses  of  hair  hanging 
to  their  loins,  and  their  foreheads  painted  with  the 
seals  of  Vishnu  or  of  Siva  ;  nearly  all  wear  the  sacred 
cord  across  their  breasts,  which  is  the  outward 
symbol  of  high  caste.  There  are  some  women  going 
to  draw  water  whose  figures  are  bent  under  the  flashing 
copper  urns  which  they  carry  on  their  shoulders ; 
draperies  with  many -coloured  borders  cover  them, 
without  in  any  way  hiding  their  outlines.  One  of 
their  swelling  breasts  is  hidden  by  muslin,  but  the 
other,  the  right  one,  is  always  left  uncovered  ;  their 
young  bosoms  are  more  developed  than  those  of 
European  races,  and  seem  almost  out  of  proportion 
with  their  delicate  waists  ;  yet  the  outlines  are  match- 
less, and  have  served  as  models  for  those  stone  and 
bronze  torsos  that  Hindoo  sculptors  have  given  to 
their  goddesses  from  the  remotest  ages,  torsos  in 
which  the  feminine  charms  seem  purposely  heightened. 

As  I  pass  these  women  on  the  road,  their  glance 
meets  mine  almost  stealthily  ;  it  is  very  tender,  but 
indifferent  and  far-away — an  unintentional  caress  of 
the  flaming  black  eyes — then  suddenly  their  eyelids 
droop. 

For  the  passing  stranger  they  are  like  a  thousand 
other  things  in  this  country,  like  the  great  temple 
itself — unfathomable. 

I  remain  the  guest  of  the  Rajah  of  Cochin  till  I 
reach  the  frontier,  and  have  only  to  allow  myself  to 
be  conducted  ;  all  has  thoughtfully  been  provided  for 
my  morning  journey  to  Trichur  :  the  guide,  the  repast, 
and  even  the  teams  of  oxen  which  will  take  me  to 
Shoranur  after  a  journey  of  three  hours  through 
villages,  jungles,  and  woods. 

Alas  !  at  Shoranur  I  shall  have  left  the  charming 
India  that  tourists  never  visit,  and  I  shall  find  the 
ubiquitous  railways,  and  from  there  I  shall  take  the 
express  train  to  Madras. 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GREAT 
PALMS 


CHAPTER  IV 
IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GREAT  PALMS 

i 

THE   WONDERFUL   ROCK   OF  TANJORE 

ABOVE  the  immense  plains  of  this  country  of  Tanjore 
and  above  the  bushy  kingdom  of  palms,  which 
stretches  out  like  the  sea,  a  huge  detached  rock  rears 
its  head  ;  l  standing  sentinel,  as  it  has  done  since 
the  beginning  of  time,  over  a  region  from  which  it  has 
seen  the  forests  spring  and  the  towns  and  temples 
grow.  It  is  a  geological  oddity,  a  whim  of  some 
primaeval  cataclysm,  and  looks  like  a  helmet,  or  the 
prow  of  some  Titan's  ship,  half-submerged  in  an 
ocean  of  greenery.  It  is  two  hundred  metres  high, 
and  springs  without  warning  from  the  neighbouring 
plain  ;  and  its  sides  are  so  smooth,  that  even  in  this 
country,  where  vegetation  conquers  everything,  no 
single  plant  has  been  able  to  find  a  foothold. 

The  early  Indians,  the  great  mystics  of  the  olden 
days,  naturally  chose  this  as  a  place  of  worship,  and 
for  centuries  have  carefully  hollowed  out  the  rock  so 
as  to  form  galleries,  stairways,  and  gloomy  temples. 
Cupolas  covered  with  beaten  gold  shine  from  the 
summit,  and  every  night  a  sacred  lire  burns  on  the 
very  top  of  the  rock,  and  this  fire,  which  has  been 
kindled  for  centuries,  can  be  seen  shining  like  a  light- 
house from  the  remotest  parts  of  Tanjore. 

As  the  sun  rises  on  the  native  village  built  at  the 
foot  of  the  rock,  there  is  a  greater  stir  than  usual,  for 

1  The  Rock  of  Trichinopoly. 
89 


90  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

a  solemn  Brahmin  festival  in  honour  of  Vishnu  takes 
place  to-morrow,  and  since  yesterday  the  natives  have 
been  occupied  in  weaving  innumerable  garlands  of 
yellow  flowers.  The  women  and  young  girls,  who 
are  grouped  round  the  fountain  filling  their  copper 
urns,  have  already  donned  their  festival  attire,  their 
finest  bracelets,  nose-,  and  ear-rings.  The  zebus 
attached  to  the  carts  have  had  their  horns  painted 
and  gilt,  and  are  decked  with  necklets,  bells,  and 
tassels  of  glass.  Garland  sellers  almost  block  our 
passage  with  their  displays  of  floral  wreaths  ;  Indian 
pinks,  Bengal  roses,  and  marigolds,  threaded  like 
pearls,  are  made  into  many-rowed  boa-like  necklets, 
from  which  hang  flowers  and  ornaments  of  gold 
thread.  To-morrow  all  the  folk  who  go  to  their 
devotions,  and  all  the  gods  stationed  in  the  temples, 
will  wear  on  their  flesh,  stone,  or  metal  chests  such 
ornaments  of  rose  or  yellow  flowers.  The  housewives, 
who  were  stirring  directly  the  dawn  appeared,  hasten 
to  trace  geometrical  figures  on  the  carefully  swept 
soil  in  front  of  their  dwellings  with  the  white  powder 
that  issues  from  the  little  box  which  they  hold  in 
their  hands,  and  with  which  they  weave  fantastic 
designs  like  intermingling  ribbons.  One  hardly 
dares  to  walk  along  the  streets  :  these  networks  of 
white  lines,  with  yellow  carnations  placed  at  the 
points  of  intersection,  are  so  beautiful.  The  wind 
commences  to  rise,  carrying  with  it  clouds  of  the 
blood-coloured  dust  which  gives  a  reddish  tone  to 
everything  in  Southern  India,  and  within  an  hour 
all  the  tracery  that  has  caused  so  much  labour  will  be 
effaced. 

The  houses  of  the  town  are  painted  the  colour  of 
red  brick,  and  have  the  fork  of  Vishnu  inscribed  above 
the  door  ;  all  are  very  low  and  have  thick  walls, 
buttresses,  and  porches  that  remind  me  of  the  Egypt 
of  Pharaoh's  days.  There  are  as  many  dwellings  for 
the  gods  as  there  are  for  men,  and  nearly  as  many 
temples  as  there  are  houses  ;  and  on  all  the  temples 
and  amongst  the  reddish  monsters  crowning  the 


A  WAYSIDE  DIVINITY  NEAR  THE  BASE  OF  THE  ROCK, 
TRICHINOPOLY. 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  91 

breastwork  of  the  walls,  families  of  crows  are  perched 
who  look  at  the  passing  crowds  and  watch  for  the 
spoils  and  all  the  scraps  of  filth  that  can  serve  as 
prey  for  them.  A  horrible  idol  can  be  seen  in  each 
of  the  little  sanctuaries,  whose  doors  are  never  closed ; 
it  is  nearly  always  the  elephant-headed  Ganesa, 
decked  with  necklets  of  fresh  yellow  flowers  which  fall 
over  his  many  arms  and  conceal  his  hanging  trunk. 

There  are  temples  upon  temples,  holy  bathing- 
places  for  the  ablutions  of  the  Brahmins,  palaces, 
and  bazaars. 

There  are  mosques  too,  for  the  faith  of  Islam — 
that  has  triumphed  in  the  north-west  and  centre 
of  India — has  filtered  to  some  extent  into  this  region 
of  the  great  palms.  How  different  from  the  Brahmin 
temples  are  these  simple  and  geometrical  arabesque - 
covered  mosques  that  rise  from  between  their  slim 
minarets,  and  keep  themselves  white  as  those  of 
Hedjaz  in  spite  of  the  red  dust  which  gives  its  tone  to 
everything  in  this  country. 

A  swarming  as  of  an  ant-heap,  and  the  constant 
set  of  people  in  one  direction  suffices  to  guide  me, 
even  on  the  evening  before  the  festival,  towards  the 
rock  temple  that  dominates  the  town.  It  is  made 
of  three  or  four  monstrous  blocks  that  are  without 
a  crack  and  almost  without  a  wrinkle  ;  these  stones 
have  merely  been  thrown  one  on  the  other,  and  the 
sides,  rounded  like  the  flanks  of  animals  and  polished 
by  running  rain-water,  hang  over  in  a  fearful  manner. 
A  veritable  crowd  of  cawing  crows  whirls  incessantly 
round  the  summit.  A  monumental  stairway  plunges 
into  the  dim  recesses  of  the  rock,  between  high 
granite  columns  of  laboured  design,  and  past  thou- 
sands of  steeples  and  idols  which  have  been  rendered 
almost  shapeless  by  age.  Some  young  elephants, 
that  are  sacred  and  descended  from  sacred  parents, 
are  standing  by,  nearly  blocking  up  the  entry  ;  they 
are  covered  with  little  bells  threaded  in  the  same 
way  as  the  garlands,  and,  as  I  pass,  these  elephants 
caress  me  with  their  trunks  in  babyish  glee. 


92  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

I  commence  to  ascend  the  stairs,  which  almost 
suddenly  plunge  into  darkness  ;  now  religious  music, 
whose  volume  is  increased  by  the  sonority  of  the 
grotto,  fills  the  air,  seeming  to  issue  from  the  bowels 
of  the  earth. 

I  need  not  say  that  the  rock  is  filled  with  a  number 
of  superposed  temples,  galleries,  passages,  and  stair- 
ways ;  some  penetrating  into  mysterious  darkness 
are  interdicted  to  all  but  the  priests.  There  are 
statues  in  every  angle  and  corner  ;  some  are  colossal, 
whilst  others  are  as  tiny  as  gnomes,  but  all  have 
crumbled  with  age  and  have  only  stumps  instead  of 
arms,  and  their  faces  are  no  longer  recognizable. 
As  I  am  not  one  of  the  faithful,  I  must  keep  to  the 
great  central  gallery  that  is  open  to  everybody,  and 
which  ascends  between  splendid  columns  hewn  out  of 
solid  blocks.  These  columns  are  covered  by  figures 
and  designs,  but  the  bases,  as  far  up  as  the  height  of  a 
man,  have  lost  all  shape  under  the  constant  polishing 
which  has  continued  for  countless  centuries  by  the 
nude  figures  who  have  pressed  against  them  in  these 
narrow  passages.  Formerly  the  walls,  and  even  the 
pavements  and  steps,  were  covered  with  signs  and 
inscriptions,  but  age  and  the  rubbing  of  countless 
hands  and  naked  feet  have  rendered  them  indis- 
tinguishable. 

First  we  enter  some  low  and  stifling  rooms,  from 
which  a  sound  of  chanting  issues  out  of  the  gloom, 
then  higher  up  we  come  to  a  temple,  as  large  as  a 
cathedral,  whose  ponderous  roof  is  upheld  by  a  forest 
of  columns.  The  profane  are  allowed  to  enter  on 
condition  that  they  do  not  advance  too  far  ;  so  it  is 
impossible  to  see  where  the  temple  finishes,  and  there 
are  passages  and  sculptured  grottos  which  disappear 
into  the  blackness  of  the  rock.  In  a  corner,  near  a 
hole  through  which  light  comes,  some  Brahmin 
children  are  engaged  in  the  study  of  the  holy  books 
under  the  tutelage  of  an  old  man  who  is  entirely 
covered  with  white  hair.  From  the  roof  prodigious 
properties  belonging  to  the  Brahmin  procession  are 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  93 

suspended — men,  cars,  horses,  and  elephants,  all 
larger  than  their  natural  size,  strange  forms,  carefully 
made  from  cardboard  and  painted,  or  tinselled  paper 
stretched  over  a  thin  framework  of  bamboo. 

Tribes  of  little  birds,  swallows  or  sparrows,  in  that 
anxiety  of  reproduction  which  characterizes  the  life 
of  this  land,  have  found  time  between  two  religious 
processions  to  fill  these  fantastic  carcasses  with  their 
nests  ;  so  the  confused  forms  of  the  suspended 
monsters  are  gay  with  the  fluttering  of  wings  and 
musical  with  the  chirping  of  the  young  birds  whose 
song  falls  like  light  hail  on  the  ground  below. 

We  have  to  mount  higher  yet.  These  polished 
walls,  which  are  often  of  a  single  block,  and  the  semi- 
darkness  remind  one  of  a  catacomb  ;  but  a  flood  of 
sunlight  suddenly  pierces  through  a  hole  cut  in  the 
rock,  and  we  see  the  pagodas  and  palm  trees  stretched 
far  beneath  us.  There  are  also  some  stones  which 
have  been  brought  here  as  large  as  those  of  the  early 
stone  age  ;  these  have  been  thrown,  pell-mell  and 
unjointed,  one  on  top  of  the  other,  but  their  huge 
weight  keeps  them  in  position,  and  time  can  never 
shift  them  from  their  place. 

At  every  step  we  encounter  Brahmins  of  superb 
form  and  appearance  whose  chests  are  daubed  with 
ashes  in  honour  of  Siva,  the  god  of  death.  They 
hurriedly  ascend  and  descend,  busied  with  the 
arrangements  for  to-morrow's  festival,  disappearing 
into  the  passages  that  are  forbidden  to  me,  and 
bringing  out  copper  vases  filled  with  water  or  bearing 
garlands  to  the  gods  I  may  not  see. 

There  is  yet  another  temple.  I  may  not  enter  it, 
but  only  look  in  from  the  threshold.  It  is  built  over 
the  one  I  have  just  left,  but  is  much  larger  and  more 
magnificent,  and  much  lighter  too,  for  there  are 
many  square  openings  in  the  roof  through  which  the 
blue  sky  can  be  seen,  through  which  the  sunlight  falls 
on  the  aedicules  sheathed  in  their  many-coloured  and 
gilt  ornaments. 

Above  this  last  sanctuary  are  the  terraces  from 


94  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

which  the  plains  of  Tan j  ore  may  be  seen  extending 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  dotted  with  thousands  of 
other  temples  that  emerge  from  the  green  palms. 

At  last  we  reach  the  stone  which  forms  the  summit, 
a  single  block  which  the  original  volcanic  disturbance 
has  placed  here  somewhat  unsteadily.  This  is  the 
stone  which  looks  like  the  prow  of  a  ship  or  the  crest 
of  a  helmet  when  it  is  seen  from  below.  The  sun  is 
shining  on  its  smooth  sides  as  we  ascend  by  one 
hundred  and  forty  faintly  traced  steps,  so  narrow, 
worn,  and  sloping,  that  we  cannot  escape  a  feeling 
of  giddiness. 

It  is  on  these  final  terraces,  adorned  with  golden 
cupolas,  that  the  sacred  fire  is  nightly  lit.  Here  also, 
in  a  dark  and  heavy  kiosk,  surrounded  by  iron  bars 
like  a  wild  beasts'  den,  the  supreme  idol  is  found  ; 
their  god,  the  horrible  black  Ganesa,  is  the  wild  beast, 
and  until  one  approaches  quite  close  to  the  bars,  his 
crouching  form  cannot  be  discerned.  His  elephant's 
ears  and  trunk  fall  over  the  protruding  belly,  and 
the  stone  body  is  half-clothed  in  gray,  dirty,  torn 
rags.  Here  the  captive  god,  whose  expression  is 
fierce  and  cunning,  reigns  alone  and  supreme  in  the 
airy  temple  built  above  all  the  rest  of  temples,  from 
which  an  uninterrupted  stream  of  music  and  prayer 
has  poured  forth  for  the  last  two  thousand  years. 

We  stand  far  above  the  region  of  human  habitation, 
and  almost  above  the  zone  which  the  birds  inhabit. 
Below  us  we  see  the  whirling  flights  of  crows  and  the 
eagles  whose  wings  are  stretched  out  motionlessly 
in  the  air.  The  country  that  we  overlook  is  one 
where  religion  holds  its  extremest  sway  ;  temples 
are  scattered  everywhere,  almost  as  abundantly  as 
trees,  and  the  red  harvest  of  sacred  pyramids  emerges 
on  all  sides  above  the  verdure.  So  plentifully  do  the 
sacred  towers  rise  above  the  palms  that  from  the 
height  at  which  we  are  situated  they  resemble  mole- 
hills in  a  field  of  grass.  Those  twenty-four  monstrous 
towers  down  there,  grouped  like  the  tents  of  an 
encampment,  belong  to  the  temple  of  Chri  Ragam, 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  95 

the  largest  of  the  sanctuaries  of  Vishnu — where  I  am 
going  to-morrow  to  see  the  passing  of  a  solemn  pro- 
cession. 

The  town  is  situated  at  the  base  of  the  overhanging 
rock,  and  the  complicated  network  of  streets,  the 
profusion  of  many-coloured  temples,  and  the  mosques, 
that  are  so  white  as  to  look  bluish,  are  marked  out 
as  on  a  highly  coloured  map  ;  the  holy  ponds,  which 
seem  to  swarm  with  black  flies,  shine  like  mirrors  in 
the  sun  ;  these  are  no  flies,  however,  but  Brahmins 
at  their  morning  ablutions. 

As  at  Malabar,  the  great  coco-palms  nearly  cover 
the  whole  of  the  country,  but  in  the  midst  of  this 
forest  of  waving  plumes,  which  extends  on  all  sides 
of  the  horizon,  there  are  some  occasional  gaps  ;  large 
yellow  patches  where  the  grass  has  been  burnt  up  by 
the  increasing  dryness,  which  has  caused  a  famine  in 
the  north-west  provinces,  and  which  is  already 
causing  anxiety  to  the  people  of  Tanjore. 

All  the  sounds  of  the  animated  and  seething  life 
below  mingle  as  they  rise  up  to  us  ;  the  noise  of  the 
joyful  town,  the  rumbling  of  zebu  carts,  the  tom-toms 
and  bagpipes  of  the  streets,  the  croakings  of  the 
eternal  crows,  the  screams  of  eagles,  the  psalms  from 
the  many  temples  beneath  our  feet,  and  the  brayings 
of  the  sacred  horns  that  never  cease  to  echo  round 
the  sides  of  the  rock  on  which  we  stand. 


ii 

AT   CHRI    RAGAM 

The  little  "  Travellers'  Rest  "  at  which  I  find  shelter 
is  about  two  miles  from  the  wonderful  rock  and  two 
leagues  from  the  great  temple  of  Chri  Ragam,  and  is 
situated  in  a  sunny  cleaving  where  the  feathery  palms 
have  been  replaced  by  some  mimosas,  whose  foliage  is 
so  poor  and  scanty  that  they  do  not  give  any  shade. 
The  dying  trees  and  the  burnt-up  vegetation  that 
surround  us  seem  to  stretch  a  warning  finger  over  this 


96  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

southern  land  of  India,  where  everything  is  eternally 
damp  and  green,  telling  of  the  fearful  drought  from 
which  the  whole  district  of  Radjiput  is  dying. 

To  reach  Chri  Ragam  from  my  lodging,  I  have  first 
to  pass  through  the  town  at  the  foot  of  the  over- 
hanging rock,  then  to  make  a  journey  of  an  hour  or 
two  in  a  carriage  under  a  vault  of  trees  and  palms  of 
every  age  and  every  shape.  On  our  way  we  pass 
endless  temples  of  varied  forms  and  age,  and  there  are 
many  stones  and  sculptured  granite  monuments  over 
which  the  faithful  have  thrown  flowers  and  garlands — 
such  strange  garlands — in  readiness  for  to-morrow's 
festival.  Over  all  the  entrances  and  on  every  door 
the  terrible  seal  of  Vishnu,  that  three-pronged  fork 
which  is  inscribed  on  the  foreheads  of  the  men,  has 
been  freshly  re-painted  in  red  and  white  colours. 
There  are  even  specially  sacred  groves  of  palms  which 
bear  the  ensign  of  the  god  ;  the  trunks,  smooth  as  a 
column,  have  been  entirely  covered  with  red  and 
white,  so  that  it  is  hard  to  say  where  the  temples  end 
or  the  woods  commence.  The  breath  of  adoration 
wafts  over  the  whole  of  this  consecrated  place. 

When  at  length  we  reach  the  sanctuary  itself,  an 
immense  sanctuary  which  stands  in  seven  inclosures, 
the  first  of  which,  containing  twenty-one  pyramids 
sixty  feet  high,  is  two  leagues  in  circumference,  a 
feeling  of  bewilderment,  caused  by  the  huge  size  and 
the  profuse  display  of  barbaric  splendour,  comes  over 
us.  The  inconceivable  plenitude  of  detail  is  as  start- 
ling as  the  size  of  the  building  itself.  All  that  I  had 
ever  read,  all  that  I  thought  I  knew,  and  all  that  I 
had  ever  seen  at  gorgeous  performances  of  fairy 
spectacles  is  astonishingly  surpassed  here.  We  are 
also  forced  to  recognize  that  our  cathedrals,  with  their 
saints  and  angels,  only  compare  with  these  huge  red 
masses  of  solid  rock  on  which  a  thousand  divinities 
gesticulate  with  their  twenty  arms  and  twenty  faces, 
as  do  our  modest  flowers  with  those  that  blossom 
here. 

We  enter  an  enormous  inclosure  that  is  older  than 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  97 

the  sanctuary,  but  whose  age  is  unknown,  the  work 
of  a  generation  who  had  dreamt  of  a  tower  as  large  as 
that  of  Babel,  but  who  never  lived  to  finish  their 
work.  Access  is  gained  by  a  doorway  which  is  more 
than  forty  feet  high,  made  of  simple  blocks  ten  to 
twelve  metres  long  ;  at  the  crown  of  the  archway 
there  are  indications  of  an  unfinished  pyramid,  which 
would  doubtless  have  struck  terror  into  the  minds 
of  those  who  saw  it,  but  probably  its  achievement  was 
impossible.  The  whole  structure  has  acquired  a  tone 
of  reddish  copper,  and  the  sacred  parrots,  perched  in 
groups  on  the  projecting  sculptures,  look  like  patches 
of  brilliant  verdigris. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  doorway  there  are  magnifi- 
cent avenues  leading  to  the  temples.  These  avenues 
extend  through  the  various  inclosures  and  are  bor- 
dered by  religious  buildings,  ponds,  bazaars,  gods 
seated  in  niches,  and  many  stone  kiosks  supported 
on  slim  columns  of  antiquated  design — everywhere 
the  same  four-sided  Indian  columns  with  their  capitals 
formed  by  a  group  of  hanging  monsters.  The  door 
of  each  fresh  inclosure  is  surmounted  and  overwhelmed 
by  an  indescribable  pyramid,  sixty  feet  high,  made 
up  of  fifteen  stories  of  colossal  gods  ranked  one  above 
the  other.  All  the  statues  of  the  airy  kingdom  look 
upwards  with  thousands  of  eyes  and  gesticulate  with 
thousands  of  arms  ;  there  are  some  who  have  twenty 
arms  projecting  in  a  fan-like  manner  from  each  of 
their  sides,  others  with  twenty  faces  which  look  in 
every  direction,  their  heads  adorned  with  tiaras,  and 
they  brandish  lotus  flowers,  deaths'  heads,  and 
emblems  of  all  sorts.  Numbers  of  mythical  animals 
force  their  way  through  the  crowded  ranks  of  the 
gods :  peacocks  with  extravagant  tails,  or  five- 
headed  serpents.  The  stone  has  been  carved  and 
chiselled  with  so  much  boldness  that  each  subject 
and  each  accessory  seems  to  be  independent  of  the 
rest  and  looks  as  if  it  might  detach  itself  and  spring 
to  the  ground.  The  pyramid  on  which  these  dense 
crowds  are  graven  grows  narrower  as  it  rises,  termi- 

7 


98  IN   THE  LAND  OF 

nating  at  length  in  a  series  of  lance -like  points.  The 
almost  unfading  colours  in  which  these  men,  beasts, 
robes,  and  adornments  were  painted  still  retain  their 
brilliancy  ;  the  predominant  tone  is  blood-red,  and 
seen  from  a  distance  each  pyramid  is  red,  but  this 
tone  alters  as  we  get  nearer,  and  patches  of  green, 
white,  and  gold  become  visible. 

The  last  inclosure  is  reserved  for  Brahmins  of  pure 
race  attached  to  the  service  of  the  gods,  who  live  here 
with  their  families.  At  last  we  arrive  at  the  temple 
proper,  and  see  the  sullen  and  defiant  ramparts  of  its 
old  crested  walls  rising  before  us,  whilst  the  customary 
red  pyramid  of  sculptured  gods  lowers  over  the  dark 
and  gloomy  entrance.  On  each  side  of  this  last  door 
are  terraces  on  which  elephants  are  chained.  These 
beasts,  which  at  present  are  engaged  in  swallowing 
some  young  trees  that  the  faithful  have  brought,  are 
very  old  and  sacred.  Scattered  near,  and  contrasting 
strongly  with  the  splendour  of  the  mighty  pyramids 
of  crowded  figures,  are  objects  that  are  almost  bar- 
baric, straw  huts,  simple  little  carts  of  ancient  make, 
rude  and  primitive  tools.  Everything  that  clusters 
at  the  foot  of  the  old  rampart  is  ruined,  worn,  and 
imbued  with  traces  of  an  uncivilized  age  that  has  long 
since  disappeared. 

The  sun  is  setting,  and  it  is  almost  too  late  to  enter 
the  temple,  for  twilight  has  already  descended  amongst 
the  naves  and  arches  of  vaulted  stones.  If  I  enter,  it 
is  but  to  inquire  about  to-morrow's  procession  of  the 
priests,  who  flit  by  like  shadows  lost  in  the  wilderness 
of  colonnades.  The  information  I  obtain  is  vague 
and  contradictory  ;  it  may  be  to-night  .  .  .  perhaps 
later  ...  it  would  depend  on  the  weather  and  on  the 
moon.  ...  I  can  see  clearly  that  the  priests  are  not 
anxious  that  I  should  be  present. 

However,  in  an  echoing  gallery,  whose  walls  are 
decorated  from  one  end  to  the  other  by  two  rows  of 
fantastic  tigers  and  horses  reared  on  their  hind  legs, 
and  of  more  than  natural  size,  I  meet  a  sweet-faced 
old  priest  who  informs  me  it  will  most  certainly  be  at 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  TYPE. 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  99 

daybreak,  and  says  that  to  be  more  sure  I  had  better 
spend  the  night  in  the  temple  itself. 

I  return  to  my  carriage  and  make  for  the  modest 
lodging  to  which  hunger  calls  me.  After  that  I  shall 
return  at  once  and  sleep  in  the  temple. 

A  beautiful  silvery  moon  is  shining  as  I  leave  my 
"  Travellers'  Rest "  once  more.  So  white  is  the 
moonlight  that  I  should  have  thought  that  the  walls 
and  the  bare  ground  were  covered  with  snow.  The 
moon's  pale  rays  filter  through  the  thin  branches  and 
delicate  leaves  of  the  mimosas  just  as  they  do  through 
the  branches  of  our  trees  when  winter  has  stripped 
off  their  leaves  ;  and  the  tiny  flowers,  like  balls  of 
down,  resemble  snowflakes  and  hoar  frost.  Can  this 
be  some  northern  territory  that  has  wandered  into 
the  land  of  heat  ?  Everything  ceases  to  astonish  in 
this  wondrous  land  where  fantastic  and  ever-changing 
images  provide  a  constant  feast  of  unexpected 
spectacle. 

The  wintry  illusion  fast  melts  away,  and  as  soon 
as  we  leave  the  parched  clearing,  the  well-defined 
shadows  of  the  palms,  banyan  trees,  and  trailing 
creepers  become  apparent  again.  The  illuminated 
fete  which  is  being  held  in  the  town  is  just  now  at  its 
height ;  all  the  open  temples,  even  the  smallest  ones, 
scarcely  larger  than  a  cupboard,  are  adorned  with 
lighted  lamps  and  yellow  garlands.  As  we  hasten  to- 
wards Chri  Ragam  our  carriage  passes  rapidly  through 
many  scenes  which  fade  into  one  confused  recollection. 
It  happens  that  this  is  also  the  month  of  Ramadan, 
so  the  Mohammedans  are  keeping  their  festival  too. 
The  great  mosque,  before  which  surges  a  crowd  of 
turbans  of  all  colours,  is  covered  by  lines  of  fire,  and 
in  order  to  make  their  spectacle  yet  more  fairy-like, 
the  white  walls,  columns,  arabesques,  and  illumina- 
tions have  been  draped  with  a  veil  of  red  muslin 
which  hides  the  sharp  outlines  with  a  rosy  glow,  and 
casts  a  haze  of  distance  and  uncertainty  over  the 
building  ;  the  minarets  and  the  dome,  however,  are 
not  sheathed  in  coloured  draperies,  and  shoot  up 


ioo  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

boldly  towards  the  starry  sky,  where  their  snowy 
crescent-crowned  forms  glimmer  in  the  moonlight. 


in 

PREPARATIONS    FOR   THE    PROCESSION 

The  night  has  fallen  as  I  get  back  to  Chri  Ragam, 
and  the  walls  of  the  temple  of  Vishnu  are  plunged  in 
gloom.  I  am  standing  in  the  sacred  precincts  where 
Brahmins  alone  may  dwell,  in  the  large  avenue  en- 
circling the  sanctuary.  The  car  of  the  god  is  stationed 
here,  waiting  for  the  moonlight ;  it  is  covered  by  a 
sort  of  dais  or  fantastic  pavilion  which  sparkles  with 
red,  green,  and  yellow  gold,  and  its  roof  is  much 
ornamented  with  miniature  towers  like  those  of  the 
temple  ;  the  car  itself,  which  forms  the  base  of  all 
this,  is  a  huge  and  terrible  mass  of  sculptured  beams, 
old  as  the  Brahmin  faith,  of  such  dimensions  that  it 
seems  impossible  that  it  could  ever  be  put  in  motion. 
The  gilt  superstructure,  resembling  an  extravagant 
and  shining  pavilion,  has  only  been  placed  there 
to-day,  and  is  a  thing  of  no  weight,  made  from  silk, 
tinsel,  and  paper  stretched  over  a  bamboo  frame- 
work, which,  however,  gives  the  impression  of  height- 
ened effect  and  magnificence.  The  moon  illumines 
white  groups  of  men  surrounding  the  car,  Indians 
looking  like  phantoms  in  the  white  muslins  with 
which  their  heads  and  chests  are  swathed.  But  it 
seems  that  the  moonlight  does  not  suffice,  for  torches 
are  brought  in  order  that  the  wheels,  which  allow  the 
car  to  move  like  a  monstrous  tortoise,  may  be  at- 
tached ;  these  car  wheels  are  solid  discs  some  three 
feet  high  made  from  two  layers  of  timber  placed 
side  by  side  and  fastened  together  with  iron  bolts. 
The  ropes  to  which  three  or  four  hundred  frenzied 
men  will  harness  themselves  to-morrow,  ropes,  thick 
as  a  Brahmin's  leg,  that  serve  to  draw  the  huge 
machine,  are  already  being  laid  out  on  the  ground. 

At  present  the  great  stone  temple  is  empty  ancl 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  101 

shrouded  in  the  gloom  of  night,  and  my  footsteps 
echo  through  the  silence  in  an  almost  terrifying 
manner.  A  few  Brahmins,  who  have  come  from  the 
country  for  the  festival,  have  sought  shelter  here,  and 
wrapped  in  their  muslins  lie  stretched  out  on  the 
stones  like  dead  men.  The  few  dim  lamps  hung  at 
long  distances  apart  and  the  occasional  moonbeams 
make  this  forest  of  columns,  and  its  people  of  idols, 
seem  more  boundless  than  ever. 

The  avenue  along  which  the  car  will  travel  to- 
morrow at  daybreak  follows  the  four  sides  of  the 
sullen-crested  rampart  of  the  sanctuary,  sweeping  in 
a  bold,  straight  line  between  the  fortress  wall  and  the 
old  houses  of  the  Brahmins,  with  their  complicated 
columns,  verandas,  and  terraces  guarded  by  granite 
monsters  ;  it  is  very  gay,  for  scarcely  any  one  will 
sleep  to-night,  and  many  white  groups,  whose  out- 
lines are  sharply  defined  in  the  ghostly  moonlight, 
are  to  be  seen  wandering  along  it. 

Women  and  young  girls  of  high  caste  commence 
to  leave  their  houses  and  gather  at  the  thresholds  of 
the  doors,  where  they  begin  to  decorate  the  venerable 
earth  that  the  car  of  Vishnu  will  plough  into  deep 
ruts  when  the  morning  comes.  The  night  is  beauti- 
fully clear,  and  everything  is  plain  as  in  the  daylight. 
These  women  and  young  girls  are  so  laden  with 
collars  of  jasmine,  and  so  many  garlands  of  threaded 
flowers  hang  on  their  bosoms,  that  as  they  move  it  is 
like  a  swinging  of  censers. 

There  is  one  young  and  slender  girl,  wrapped  in 
black  and  silver  muslin,  so  beautiful  that  I  stop 
almost  involuntarily  before  her.  Each  time  that  she 
stoops  to  the  ground,  and  each  time  that  she  raises 
herself  up,  the  click  of  the  precious  rings  that  sur- 
round her  ankles  and  arms  is  heard.  The  design 
that  she  traces  on  the  ground,  and  which  she  seems 
to  invent  as  she  goes  on,  is  of  a  charming  oddity. 
The  guide  who  accompanies  me  this  evening  is  a 
Vellana  of  noble  race,  and  he,  at  my  suggestion, 
ventures  to  ask  her  if  she  would  lend  me  the  white 


102  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

powder  for  a  while  so  that  I  may  assist  in  decorating 
the  soil  in  front  of  her  dwelling.  She  smiles,  and 
after  some  hesitation  hands  the  little  box  to  him, 
so  that  he  may  give  it  to  me,  for  she  is  too  disdainful 
even  to  touch  my  hand.  The  white  ghosts  wander- 
ing along  the  avenue  surround  me,  puzzled  to  know 
what  I  am  going  to  do,  anxious  to  know  what  design 
will  spring  up  under  my  hands. 

As  I  trace  the  monogram  of  Vishnu  very  clearly 
on  the  dull,  red  soil,  a  murmur  of  surprise  and  sym- 
pathy rises  from  the  bystanders.  The  little  Indian 
beauty  even  consents  to  take  the  sand-box  from  my 
hands  and  to  consult  with  me  as  to  her  plans  ;  there 
will  be  a  border  of  rose  ornaments  and  stars,  and 
hibiscus  flowers  are  to  be  placed  in  the  centre  of 
each  panel. 

I  feel,  however,  that  I  have  trespassed  far  enough, 
if  not  too  far,  and  in  order  that  she  may  not  think 
me  an  intruder,  and  that  I  may  receive  a  gentle 
smile  of  farewell,  feel  that  the  precise  moment  has 
come  for  me  to  withdraw. 

Some  mysterious  rite  that  I  may  not  see  is  about 
to  be  consummated.  It  is  almost  midnight.  All 
the  white  groups  have  assembled  round  the  gilded 
car  of  the  god  with  the  shining  canopy.  To  give 
more  pomp  and  solemnity  to  the  occasion,  the  great 
sacred  elephants,  one  of  which  is  a  hundred  years 
old,  have  been  tethered  close  to  the  car,  and,  clothed 
in  their  gold-fringed  robes  of  state,  shuffle  about  in 
the  moonlight  like  flabby  monsters.  Huge  parasols 
terminating  in  copper  balls  have  been  opened,  and 
now  a  procession  of  young  Brahmins  advances  carry- 
ing torches,  whose  triple  flames  are  supported  on 
three  branches  after  the  manner  of  the  fork  of  Vishnu. 

This  is  the  hour  for  the  accomplishment  of  the 
mysterious  rite.  From  a  hidden  recess  at  the  back 
of  the  temple  the  most  sacred  symbol,  the  true  and 
only  image  of  Vishnu,  "  the  one  who  may  not  be 
looked  upon,"  the  god  of  pure  gold  reclining  on 
a  five-headed  serpent,  will  be  taken  and  carried  on 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  103 

to  the  platform  which  stands  in  an  old  kiosk  built 
specially  for  the  purpose.  Priests  with  lighted  lamps 
will  watch  at  his  feet,  and  then  to-morrow  morning 
they  have  only  to  pass  the  god  into  the  car  through 
a  window  and  to  seat  him  under  the  dais-shaped 
tower  that  guards  him  from  all  prying  eyes.  Each 
time  that  the  Vishnu  of  Chri  Ragam  passes  along  the 
avenue  on  his  way  to  the  kiosk,  he  is,  it  is  needless 
to  say,  swathed  in  many  draperies  ;  and  even  then 
the  removal  always  takes  place  at  night,  so  that  no 
uninitiated  eye  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  form.  It 
happens  this  year  that  the  festival  takes  place  during 
the  period  of  the  full  moon,  and  I,  the  only  profane 
stranger  here,  am  warned  that  I  ought  to  retire,  for 
it  is  really  very  light.  So  I  retire  from  the  avenue. 
I  take  up  my  quarters  in  the  distant  temple  with  the 
Brahmins  already  reposing  there,  and  wait  for  the 
coming  dawn.  The  gloomy  place  is  filled  with  an 
immense  and  peaceful  calm,  and  a  feeling  almost 
akin  to  freshness  hovers  in  the  air.  As  I  fall  asleep 
I  hear  murmured  prayers,  whose  faint  whispers  echo 
amongst  the  vaulted  arches ;  sometimes  also  the 
muffled  tread  of  naked  feet  wandering  cautiously 
over  the  pavement. 

IV 
THE    PROCESSION    PASSES 

Croak  !  Croak  !  A  crow  awakens  me  with  the 
hoarse  cry  with  which  it  salutes  the  dawning  day, 
and  gives  the  signal  to  its  fellows  sleeping  by  thou- 
sands in  the  vicinity.  The  resonance  of  this  forest 
of  stone  prolongs  and  magnifies  the  sounds  of  the 
mournful  concert  sung  amongst  these  vaulted  arches, 
for  the  crows  are  in  some  manner  sacred  and  nest  in 
the  temple  itself.  Undying  echoes  repeat  "  Croak, 
croak  "  from  all  sides  ;  echoes  hovering  amidst  far- 
distant  granite  passages,  fading  amongst  lofty  naves 
or  reverberating  through  underground  passages, 
whose  mazes  can  be  felt  rather  than  seen.  The  entire 


104  IN  THE  LAND   OF 

temple  vibrates  with  the  answering  cries  of  this 
serenade  offered  every  morning  to  the  many  gods 
who  live  among  these  sacred  shades. 

It  is  necessary  to  have  the  eyes  of  a  bird  to  per- 
ceive that  day  must  soon  dawn,  and  it  is  darker  than 
it  was  last  night.  The  lamps  have  gone  out  and  the 
moon  no  longer  shines.  A  dampness  as  of  a  tomb 
is  spread  over  the  stones,  filling  one  with  a  sense  of 
chilliness.  Nothing  is  visible,  only  here  and  there 
the  faint  glimmer  of  light  which  niters  through  a 
vent  or  enters  by  a  hole  in  the  roof.  Now  another 
sound  is  added  to  the  cries  of  the  birds,  a  noise  of 
wings  and  a  rustling  of  feathers  ;  the  black  swarm 
is  about  to  fly. 

Ah !  at  last  the  light  comes.  In  this  land  it 
always  comes  quickly,  just  as  it  goes.  ...  So  quickly, 
that  the  effect  is  theatrical ;  prodigious  perspectives 
of  columns  stand  out  suddenly  in  diaphanous  pallor, 
a  pallor  so  faint  as  to  make  them  resemble  reflections 
from  more  distant  objects,  illusionary  and  impalpable 
images  of  pillars  seen  through  a  veil  of  grayish  gauze. 
Vast  points  of  view  are  suddenly  revealed,  crossways 
of  naves  whose  ends  cannot  be  discerned.  Now,  be- 
hind me,  appears  the  avenue  where  I  met  the  priest 
last  evening,  the  avenue  of  the  prancing  monsters, 
whose  outlines  I  can  already  see.  The  human  shapes 
which  were  extended  on  the  ground,  swathed  in  their 
muslins,  rise  and  stretch  their  arms,  and  straightening 
their  backs  take  their  departure,  wan  and  trans- 
parent figures,  the  sound  of  whose  footsteps  seems 
strange  in  this  scene  of  colourless  enchantment. 

Near  to  the  flagstone  on  which  I  slept  last  night, 
a  granite  staircase  leads  to  the  terraces  of  the 
temple  ;  gropingly  I  find  my  way  to  it  by  keeping 
my  hands  close  to  the  cold  walls. 

I  ascend,  and  on  reaching  the  top  find  myself  alone. 

The  terraces  which  surmount  the  flat  and  massive 
vaulted  arches  extend  like  a  desert ;  a  desert  of  huge 
paved  stones,  that  lies  round  me  on  all  sides  ;  a 
desert  which  appears  to  merge  into  the  far-distant 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  105 

clouds.  Here,  too,  I  am  possessed  with  a  sense  of 
illusion,  but  the  lighting  of  the  scene  is  quite  different ; 
it  is  clearer,  though  the  day  has  not  yet  come,  and 
yet,  just  as  in  the  temple,  all  the  objects  that  I  begin 
to  discern  seem  unreal.  These  clouds  extending 
round  the  terrace  are  formed  of  vapour  that  has 
condensed  on  the  earth  during  the  night ;  a  vapour 
so  thick  that  it  resembles  a  bluish-coloured  wadding 
that  might  be  touched  if  one  were  near  enough  ;  the 
whole  plain  is  filled  with  its  fleecy  masses,  and  only 
a  few  tufts  of  the  black  feathers  and  black  fans  that 
spring  from  the  heads  of  the  tallest  palms  emerge 
from  it.  A  greenish  light  of  a  deliciously  trans- 
parent shade  of  beryl  gradually  covers  the  eastern 
horizon,  looking  like  a  transparent  patch  of  oil  which 
expands  in  a  wide  circle  over  the  veil  that  night  has 
cast  over  the  sky.  A  large  red  globe  still  lingers  in 
the  western  sky.  Is  it  some  worn-out  planet  ?  or 
a  dead  world  ?  or  but  the  slowly-sinking  moon  ? 
By  this  time  all  the  crows  that  inhabit  the  temple 
are  awake,  and  I  can  hear  the  concert  of  their  voices 
beneath  me,  and  the  answering  cries  that  descend 
from  all  points  of  the  air,  now  black  with  whirling 
flights  of  wings. 

It  takes  me  ten  minutes  to  walk  through  the 
wilderness  of  stones,  across  naves,  galleries,  stair- 
ways, and  passages,  to  get  back  to  the  avenue  running 
round  the  building  where  I  was  last  night,  and  along 
which  the  procession  will  shortly  pass. 

The  golden  god  must  be  in  his  place — his  journey 
from  the  temple  to  the  kiosk,  and  from  the  kiosk  to 
the  car  duly  accomplished — for  when  I  reach  the 
spot  no  one  is  near. 

The  sacred  elephants,  divested  of  their  finery,  are 
reposing  in  stalls,  which  are  on  a  granite  balcony 
extending  from  either  side  of  the  door.  The  terrible 
seal  of  Vishnu  painted  on  their  huge  foreheads,  the 
same  mark  that  the  men  have  on  their  own,  but  ten 
times  greater.  Their  intelligent  eyes  are  fixed  on  the 
car  lying  near  them,  which  they  are  so  soon  to  follow. 


106  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

It  is  almost  day,  and  the  sun  must  soon  rise.  The 
four  monstrous  wheels  are  fitted  to  the  car,  and  the 
cables  lie  extended  on  the  ground.  Now  the  high 
priests  descend  from  the  kiosk,  where  they  had 
passed  the  night  in  prayer  ;  they  are  preceded  by  the 
procession  of  youths  who  carry  triple-flamed  torches, 
which  they  extinguish  on  coming  into  the  brightness 
of  the  growing  day.  The  venerable  old  men  appear 
separately  at  the  top  of  the  black  staircase,  at  first 
distantly  and  surrounded  by  the  smoke  of  the  pine 
torches,  but  as  they  gradually  descend  the  steps  their 
wondrous  mystic  faces,  surrounded  with  white  hair, 
become  defined  in  the  fresh  morning  light,  and  I 
see  that  their  foreheads  are  shaved  up  to  the  crown 
of  their  heads,  in  order  that  the  forked  seal  of  their 
god  may  be  painted  in  larger  characters.  They  are 
almost  nude — in  their  forgetfulness  of  earthly  things  ; 
a  loin  cloth  surrounds  their  body,  and  they  wear  a 
little  linen  cord  indicating  their  rank,  which  nestles 
amidst  the  fleece  of  white  hair  growing  on  their 
chests. 

Now  men  are  removing  the  foot-bridge,  draped 
with  strange  old  silks,  that  led  from  the  car  to  the 
window  of  the  kiosk,  and  which  served  for  the  trans- 
port of  the  golden  Vishnu.  An  orchestra  of  dark- 
faced  musicians  plays  something  deafening,  some- 
thing melancholy  and  barbarous  enough  to  make 
one  shudder  ;  some  beat  the  tom-toms,  while  others 
blow  with  all  their  force  into  gigantic  horns  that  are 
turned  towards  the  invisible  god. 

The  decoration  of  the  car  is  at  last  completed. 
Four  wooden  horses,  to  give  the  resemblance  of  a 
quadriga,  have  been  yoked  in  front  of  it ;  horses 
with  outstretched  wings  and  feet  that  rear  themselves 
into  the  air  with  a  look  of  fury.  Around  the  throne 
of  the  god,  now  concealed  by  impenetrable  curtains 
of  red  silk,  a  kind  of  suspended  garden  has  been  made 
with  branches  of  natural  flowers,  whose  yellow 
carnations  and  marigolds  are  mingled  with  golden 
thread.  Naked  youths,  at  first  concealed  amongst 


THE   GREAT  PALMS  107 

the  draperies  and  the  canopies  of  silk  and  flowers, 
are  seen  stationed  at  various  heights  on  the  rolling 
structure  ;  these  are  the  guards  of  honour  of  the 
god,  and  their  horns  now  answer  the  melancholy 
howlings  that  issue  from  the  orchestra  stationed  on 
the  ground. 

The  sacred  elephants  advance  towards  the  car  and 
kneel  down  of  their  own  will  so  that  the  embroidered 
robes  and  head  ornaments  of  gold  and  pearl  may  be 
put  on  them  ;  then  they  proceed  to  place  themselves 
behind  the  priests  in  the  still  stationary  procession. 
Meanwhile  the  younger  men  fall  into  rank  towards 
the  front  of  the  car,  by  the  side  of  the  four  monstrous 
cables  that  lie  stretched  out  on  the  ground. 

The  wall  of  the  temple  which  forms  one  of  the 
sides  of  the  avenue  remains  dark,  deserted,  and 
mournful,  but,  on  the  other  side,  a  watching  crowd 
gathers  before  the  houses  of  the  Brahmins,  and  all 
the  windows,  the  verandas  with  their  heavy 
columns,  and  the  pavements,  ornamented  with  mon- 
sters, are  thronged  with  children  and  old  men. 
There  are  crowds  of  women  everywhere  in  their  gold- 
embroidered  muslins,  necklets  of  flowers,  and  spark- 
ling jewels  ;  some  carry  offerings  to  the  priests,  whilst 
others  hasten  with  little  sand-boxes  in  their  hands 
to  repair  the  ravages  that  have  been  made  in  their 
work,  and  to  place  a  few  fresh,  yellow  flowers  here 
and  there. 

The  mists  that  night  had  thrown  over  the  plain 
have  vanished  and  melted  away,  in  a  single  instant, 
like  unsubstantial  dreams. 

Day  dawn  in  tropical  countries  is  not  favourable 
to  any  attempts  at  human  pageantry.  The  spectacle 
that  seemed  enchanted  but  a  short  while  ago  when 
I  was  on  the  terraces  and  whilst  the  last  torches 
were  flaming  in  the  hesitating  dawn,  now  seems  un- 
able to  bear  the  pure  clearness  of  the  morning  sky. 
Yet  I  can  tell  nothing  of  the  sky  save  that  it  is  in- 
finitely limpid  and  adorably  green,  of  a  pale,  re- 
splendent green  that  cannot  be  named.  But  by  the 


io8  IN  THE   LAND  OF 

side  of  it  everything  looks  miserable  and  faded.  The 
temple  wall  displays  its  decay  and  its  mouldering 
red  patches.  Too  much  is  visible  ;  the  aid  of  night 
or  the  dazzling  brightness  of  the  sun  is  wanted.  The 
ornamentation  of  the  car  is  coarse  and  childish,  and 
the  robes  of  the  elephants  worn-out  and  ragged.  The 
clear  bronze  colour  that  spreads  over  the  faces  and 
bosoms  of  the  young  women  resists  a  little  longer, 
it  is  true,  but  there  are  draperies  and  muslins  which 
almost  look  like  filthy  rags.  In  this  deceptive 
moment  the  decrepitude  and  decadence  of  Brahmin 
India  seem  assured,  its  rites  and  festivals  appear  to 
have  fallen  into  decay  just  as  its  superhuman  monu- 
ments and  its  superb  race  of  men.  People  of  a 
bygone  age,  and  creeds  of  a  past  time  whose  cycle  is 
accomplished  and  now  fall  into  decay. 

However,  nothing  indicates  the  oppression  of  the 
foreigner ;  not  a  single  modern  detail  intrudes  on 
this  ancient  spectacle,  and  I  am  the  only  alien  pre- 
sent at  the  festival. 

At  last  the  sun  comes,  the  great  magician  whose 
appearance  will  transfigure  everything.  This  sudden 
bursting  forth  has  something  tragic  in  it,  which  har- 
monizes with  the  temple  and  with  the  god  whose 
festival  is  celebrated  to-day.  A  cloud,  close  to  the 
horizon,  the  only  visible  one,  still  conceals  the  sun 
from  those  who  are  on  the  level  ground,  a  dark 
copper-coloured  sky,  three  pointed  flames,  resembling 
the  fork  of  Vishnu  painted  on  the  foreheads  of  the 
men.  The  great  towers,  however,  can  see  the  sun, 
and  the  crests  of  the  red  granite  walls,  and  the 
pyramids  of  gods  towering  into  the  air  begin  to 
glisten  as  if  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  glory. 

The  sacred  parrots,  who  have  thousands  of  nests  in 
this  forest  of  sculpture,  commence  to  stir  and  utter 
shrill  cries  ;  their  green  colour,  the  green  of  a  Chinese 
water-colour,  looking  still  more  unreal  amidst  the  red 
entanglement  of  faces,  arms,  and  legs  that  grimace 
and  gesticulate  on  every  part  of  the  tall  pyramid. 

The  gildings  on  the  summit  of  the  car  commence  to 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  109 

shine  now,  and  the  great  hour  is  at  hand.  The  horns 
give  the  signal,  and  hundreds  of  arms,  with  tensely 
knotted  muscles,  fix  themselves  on  the  cables.  All 
the  young  men,  even  the  most  noble  Brahmins,  join 
in  united  effort,  partly  from  pleasure  and  partly  from 
a  sense  of  duty.  Now  they  make  ready.  With  a 
grace  that  is  almost  feminine,  and  which  contrasts 
strongly  with  their  proud  masculine  eyes  and  thin 
broad  shoulders,  they  unknot  their  heavy  coils  of 
hair  ;  then  raising  their  arms,  which  many  bracelets 
encircle,  retie  them  into  a  tighter  knot. 

The  second  signal,  a  fury  of  tom-toms,  and  a  more 
imperious  blast  of  the  horn,  is  answered  by  an  outcry 
of  human  tongues,  whilst  the  cables  stretch  under  the 
effort  of  straining  muscles.  However,  the  enormous 
machine  does  not  move,  for  it  has  become  embedded 
in  the  ground  since  last  year's  procession. 

At  the  instigation  of  their  leader  a  better  organized 
attempt  is  made,  and  this  one  will  no  doubt  be  suc- 
cessful. More  men  come  to  help,  and  old  men,  whose 
chests  seem  covered  with  snow,  mingle  their  white 
fleeces  with  the  black  ones.  A  great  cry  goes  up 
from  the  crowd,  and  muscles  and  backs  are  strained 
more  furiously  than  ever.  Still  it  does  not  move, 
and  the  cables  fall,  like  huge  dead  serpents,  from 
their  disheartened  hands  on  to  the  ground. 

But  they  know  well  enough  that  the  car  will  move. 
Since  the  memory  of  man  the  car  of  the  god  has  never 
refused  to  budge  under  the  efforts  of  forefathers, 
whose  arms  have  fallen  back  to  dust  so  long  ago  that 
their  souls  must  either  have  been  reincarnated  or 
freed  from  fallacious  personality  and  merged  into  the 
one  universal  soul. 

The  car  will  move,  as  the  old  priests  who  stand 
there  unconcernedly  with  dreamy  eyes  and  souls 
already  half  loosened  from  their  emaciated  bodies 
know  well  enough.  Even  the  elephants  know  it  too, 
for  they  stand  there  quite  peacefully,  though  the 
thoughts  which  fill  their  large  brains  are  quite  un- 
fathomable to  us.  The  oldest  especially  must  know 


no  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

it  well,  the  one  who  has  seen  three  or  four  generations 
of  arms  attached  to  these  ropes,  and  has  been  familiar 
with  this  scene  for  the  last  hundred  years. 

"  Run  !  fetch  the  levers  and  the  tackle,  we  must 
have  them."  Whole  trunks  of  trees  are  brought  on 
the  shoulders  of  the  porters,  the  levelled  end  is  placed 
under  the  wheel  which  will  not  move,  whilst  ten  men 
sit  astride  on  the  end  that  projects  into  the  air  and 
spring  up  and  down,  whilst  others  pull  ahead  at  the 
ropes  and  pullies. 

The  huge  structure  trembles.  There  is  a  great  cry 
of  joy,  and  the  car  starts  off. 

The  wheels  of  Vishnu's  car  commence  to  revolve, 
tearing  up  the  earth  with  four  deep  furrows.  The 
car  moves,  accompanied  by  the  groans  of  straining 
axles,  a  creaking  of  bending  wood,  and  the  din  of 
human  voices  and  sacred  trumpets.  There  is  an 
immense  overflow  of  childish  joy ;  white  teeth 
glimmer  in  mouths  which  are  opened  widely  with 
shouts  of  triumph,  and  the  air  is  filled  with  waving 
arms. 

The  car  has  moved  some  thirty  paces  from  its 
original  place,  but  it  now  stops  and  becomes  em- 
bedded again.  The  elephants  who  had  commenced 
to  walk  in  procession  behind  stop  also,  jostling  against 
one  another  softly  but  heavily.  So  everything  must 
be  recommenced. 

However,  this  seems  to  be  the  natural  order  of 
things,  and  they  prepare  to  start  anew.  Whilst  the 
levers  and  other  tackle  are  being  brought,  women  rush 
between  the  serried  ranks  of  priests  and  almost  under 
the  feet  of  the  gentle  elephants,  so  that  they  may  kiss 
the  freshly  made  furrows  in  the  soil,  the  ruts  dug  by 
the  weight  of  the  golden  god.  The  sun's  rays  have 
sunk  from  the  summit  of  the  temple  on  the  crowds 
assembled  below  and  now  clothe  them  with  mag- 
nificence. Metal  rings  shine  on  all  the  naked  arms, 
and  diamonds  and  rubies  threaded  on  pins  sparkle  in 
the  noses  of  the  women.  Through  the  transparence  of 
painted  or  gold-laced  muslin,  the  bosoms  of  young 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  in 

girls  are  seen  stainless  as  the  breasts  of  the  Bride  of 
Siva,  the  goddess  with  the  eyes  of  fishes. 

The  huge  machine  proceeds  jerkily  along  ;  some- 
times it  makes  terrible  bounds,  then  come  the  never- 
ending  stoppages  ;  thus  the  procession  lasts  for  two 
or  three  hours,  in  a  veritable  revelry  of  strength  and 
movement.  The  tracks  left  by  the  procession  of  the 
gods  make  the  ground  look  as  if  it  had  been  worked 
by  an  army  of  savage  ploughs,  the  same  ground  that 
was  so  smooth  this  morning  and  so  garlanded  with 
white  ribbons  and  dotted  flowers. 

As  the  procession  makes  a  long  halt  at  one  of  the 
corners  of  the  temple,  where  it  is  necessary  to  lever 
the  car  round  the  bend  of  the  avenue,  I  mount  again, 
with  my  guide  and  a  Brahmin,  to  the  terraces  that  ex- 
tend over  the  labyrinth  of  naves — the  dim  passages 
and  the  halls  with  their  myriad  columns — in  order 
that  I  may  find  a  little  air  and  quiet.  The  terraces 
are  as  deserted  as  they  were  this  morning,  but  the 
sunlight  shows  me  that  they  are  decayed  and  ruined, 
and  that  their  grayish-red  walls  are  riven  by  cracks, 
which  look  like  impresses  that  centuries  have  left. 
The  hour  is  still  early  enough,  and  the  sun  sufficiently 
low  for  me  to  sit  or  even  to  lie  down  in  the  long 
shadows  cast  by  the  monstrous  towers. 

The  terrace  extends  before  me  like  a  solitary  and 
dismal  steppe  ;  close  by  its  edge  there  are  some  tiny 
old  gods  with  bats'  wings  who  bend  over  to  look  down 
below  ;  there  is  nothing  else,  only  this  flat  plain  with 
its  towers  of  stony-faced  gods  rising  at  regular  inter- 
vals ;  but  the  sanctuary  is  so  vast  that  some  of  these 
towers  are  quite  distant. 

Here  and  there  deep  ruts  like  trenches  are  seen  ; 
these  are  the  mouths,  the  openings  of  the  open-air 
promenades  that  have  been  contrived  amongst  the 
gloomy  halls  below  ;  the  one  in  the  centre  is  planted 
with  banyan  trees,  whose  green  heads  appear  above 
the  terrace,  and  this  is  the  one  that  surrounds  the 
holy  of  holies,  the  secret  and  dreadful  place  of  gloom 
where  the  unapproachable  idols  repose. 


H2  IN   THE  LAND   OF 

Perhaps  the  little  divinities  who  look  over  the  crest 
of  the  wall  are  interested  in  the  procession  which  I 
can  no  longer  see  nor  hear  from  where  I  am  ;  all  the 
turmoil  below  is  hidden  from  me,  so  also  is  the  neigh- 
bouring town  with  its  houses  and  its  streets,  and  my 
strange  desert  seems  to  border  directly  on  the  forest 
of  palms  whose  bluish  outlines  are  visible  against  the 
horizon. 

Crows  and  vultures  wheel  around  in  a  dazzling  sky, 
traversed  from  time  to  time  by  flights  of  green 
parrots.  Lizards  crawl  about,  and  the  hopping 
squirrels  which  haunt  the  monuments  and  trees  of 
India  play  and  chase  one  another  amongst  the  holy 
stones.  I  fall  into  a  contemplative  silence,  and  there 
is  nothing  to  make  me  uneasy  but  the  pyramids  of 
gods  that  rise  into  the  air  above  my  head  ;  the  atti- 
tude of  the  graven  figures  is  calm  and  impassive,  but 
the  images  seem  too  grotesque,  and  the  towers  are 
too  lofty  for  my  European  notions. 

An  hour  has  flown  whilst  I  have  been  resting  in  the 
shade  of  this  airy  wilderness.  My  guide  and  the 
Brahmin  are  asleep  too,  lying  comfortably  at  full 
length  on  the  warm  stones. 

Can  it  be  that  some  hallucination  has  seized  me,  or 
is  it  giddiness  ?  One  of  the  towers  down  there  seems 
to  totter,  and  now  it  actually  moves.  For  an  instant 
I  am  stupefied,  then  I  look  again  and  understand  ; 
ah  !  it  is  the  mock  tower  of  the  car,  it  is  the  pro- 
cession trailing  along  by  the  side  of  the  temple  wall 
farthest  from  me.  From  where  I  am  the  taut  ropes, 
the  excited  crowd,  the  elephants,  and  the  procession 
are  all  hidden  as  in  a  ditch,  and  I  can  only  see  the 
counterfeit  structure  covering  the  throne  upon  which 
the  invisible  god  is  seated.  Neither  the  music  nor 
the  cries  of  the  people  are  audible.  This  is  the  last 
impression  the  car  of  Vishnu  leaves  on  me,  that 
of  a  tower  moving  by  itself  along  the  edge  of  the 
terraces,  silently  and  solitarily,  in  the  wilderness  of 
stone. 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  113 


AMONG   THE    BRAHMINS    AT   MADURA 

At  Madura,  the  town  which  was  once  the  capital  of 
a  splendour-loving  king,  there  is  a  temple  dedicated 
to  Siva,  and  to  Parvati  his  wife,  the  goddess  with  the 
eyes  of  a  fish  ' — a  temple  that  is  larger  than  the 
Louvre  and  much  more  elaborately  sculptured,  and 
which  contains  perhaps  as  many  marvels. 

Thanks  to  the  influence  of  the  gracious  Maharajah 
of  Travancore,  I  shall  be  able  to  enter  this  sanctuary, 
descend  to  its  underground  caverns,  and  see  the 
treasures  and  head-dresses  of  the  goddess.  Though 
the  town  retains  all  its  Indian  features,  strangers, 
who  come  here  in  large  numbers,  are  well  received, 
and  the  temples  are  not  so  sullenly  guarded  as  in 
some  of  the  neighbouring  states. 

At  Travancore  letters  of  introduction  have  also 
been  given  me  to  families  of  various  castes  living  at 
Madura.  I  first  visit  the  Brahmins,  who  in  India 
represent  all  that  is  most  distinguished  and  select. 

This  massive  and  clumsy  house,  which  contains  a 
ground  floor  and  a  single  story,  is  typical  of  all  dwell- 
ings of  the  aristocracy  of  this  town.  There  is  also  a 
veranda  with  columns,  whose  capitals  are  carved  into 
the  likeness  of  monsters'  heads,  and  a  little  stone 
staircase  leading  to  the  chamber  of  honour,  situated 
on  the  first  floor  and  overlooking  the  street  with  its 
three  tiny  festooned  windows.  The  head  of  the 
family,  a  white-haired  old  man,  receives  me  there  ; 
he  is  surrounded  by  four  young  men,  who,  it  seems, 
are  his  sons.  Their  long  eyes  are  underlined  by 
strokes  of  black  paint ;  as  to  clothes,  they  merely 
wear  a  scrap  of  cloth  round  their  waists,  but  this  does 
not  prevent  them  from  having  an  air  of  distinction, 
nobility,  and  grace.  The  room,  whitewashed  and 
beautifully  clean,  has  a  certain  air  of  elegance,  and  is 
perfumed  by  the  scent  of  some  unfamiliar  incense 

1  In  Indian  Miivakchi, 

8 


H4  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

that  has  been  burnt  there.  The  chairs  are  of  carved 
ebony.  On  the  walls,  in  gilt  frames,  there  are  some 
old  water-colours  representing  the  seven  incarnations 
of  Vishnu.  On  the  floor  a  beautiful  Indian  carpet 
and  some  mattresses  covered  with  a  flowered  material. 
The  Brahmins  are  a  little  surprised  at  my  visit,  for 
strangers  do  not  generally  call ;  nevertheless,  they 
seem  anxious  to  be  courteous  and  hospitable,  and 
invite  me  to  inspect  their  house.  First  there  is  a 
melancholy  courtyard  surrounded  by  walls,  on  which 
sheep  and  goats  are  lying  under  the  shade  of  a  stunted 
banyan  tree.  Then  we  visit  the  roofs,  whose  terraces 
are  the  homes  of  pigeons  and  the  resting-places  of 
countless  crows.  From  here  we  overlook  the  palace 
of  the  ancient  kings  of  Madura,  an  enormous  and 
costly  monument  of  the  seventeenth  century,  built 
in  the  Hindoo- Arabian  style  ;  the  town,  with  its 
temples  and  its  huge  red  pyramids  of  gods  towering 
from  all  sides  into  a  sky  black  with  birds,  lies  farther 
off  and  stretches  out  till  it  joins  the  distant  forest  of 
palms.  Finally,  I  am  taken  to  the  library,  which  is 
crammed  with  books  of  philosophy  and  religion ; 
all  these  volumes  indicate  a  highly-advanced  and 
special  culture  which  contrasts  strongly  with  the 
simple  garb  of  my  hosts. 

Before  going  I  return  to  the  reception-room  and 
rest  there  a  few  moments,  whilst  one  of  the  young 
men  takes  a  long  gilt  mandoline  and  plays  softly  on 
its  muted  strings.  Of  course  I  have  not  seen  the 
women,  that  would  not  have  been  proper,  but  before 
I  take  leave  the  two  youngest  children  of  the  house 
are  brought  to  me,  two  little  girls  of  three  to  four 
years  who  advance  towards  me  without  any  traces  of 
fear.  Their  costume  consists  of  little  heart-shaped 
plaques  of  gold,  which  are  suspended  from  a  little  chain 
that  is  attached  round  their  waists,  and  some  heavily 
chiselled  rings  that  adorn  their  wrists  and  ankles. 

They  are  two  little  marvels  of  beauty,  two  ch  arming 
bodies  of  bronze,  and  with  eyes  of  night  in  whose  depths 
a  smile  seems  to  lurk  under  their  long  painted  lashes. 


a 


O 

1 

oi 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  115 

VI 
BALAMONI,  THE  GOOD  BAYADERE 

A  bayadere,  celebrated  as  much  for  her  charity  as 
for  her  grace,  lives  at  Madura.  In  accordance  with 
the  usual  custom  she  was  at  first  the  favourite  of  a 
Nabob,  who  at  his  death  left  her  covered  with  as 
many  precious  stones  as  an  idol.  Rich  and  free  now, 
she  spends  her  fortune  in  works  of  art  and  deeds  of 
charity,  and  in  the  theatre  which  she  has  had  specially 
built,  revives  with  her  own  charming  art  classic 
Indian  tragedies  that  are  thousands  of  years  older 
than  our  own. 

I  wander  under  the  splendour  of  the  full  moon  on 
my  way  to  the  theatre  of  Balamoni,  the  good  baya- 
dere, and  as  I  pass  through  the  palm  woods  the  long 
black  feathers  hanging  down  in  all  directions  from 
their  slender  stems  sway  and  brush  softly  against 
each  other  in  the  gentle  breeze. 

Balamoni  is  on  the  stage  when  I  reach  my  seat ; 
she  is  at  the  back  in  a  garden  of  painted  flowers,  in 
the  golden  tower  of  a  fairy  palace  where  she  is  held 
captive,  and  she  sings  from  her  windows,  accom- 
panying herself  on  a  precious  mandoline. 

She  is  a  young  princess  betrothed  to  the  son  of  a 
king  of  one  of  the  neighbouring  countries,  and  her 
affianced  is  coming  to  seek  her  shortly.  At  the  very 
first  notes  one  feels  the  charm  of  the  music  and  of  her 
voice.  Her  costume  is  copied  from  an  antique  bas- 
relief  and  her  outline  is  charming.  At  each  gesture 
of  the  singer  the  diamonds  and  rubies  with  which  she 
is  covered  glitter. 

The  rest  of  the  scenery  is  of  an  artlessness  that  is 
doubtless  unintentional,  but  even  whilst  making  me 
smile,  it  gives  the  impression  of  an  exotic  and  distant 
land.  The  hall  is  very  large  and  can  hold  over  a 
thousand  persons,  though  it  is  simply  like  one  of  those 
light  structures  of  wood,  matting,  and  bamboo  that 
people  erect  by  the  side  of  the  temples  at  the  time  of 


n6  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

the  great  religious  festivals.  It  has  no  decoration  of 
any  sort,  but  on  each  side  of  the  stage  there  are  boxes 
for  the  princesses  of  the  ancient  reigning  family  ;  the 
princesses,  however,  are  not  coming  this  evening,  for 
it  is  not  their  day.  The  whole  of  the  pit  and  other 
seats  are  filled  by  naked-breasted  spectators,  for  the 
temperature  is  that  of  a  hot-house  filled  with  scented 
flowers. 

Balamoni  sings  in  a  tongue  that  has  long  since 
vanished — in  the  Sanskrit,  which  is  the  mother  of  our 
Indo-European  languages,  and  the  entire  piece  will 
be  played  in  this  language  just  as  it  was  written 
formerly  in  the  first  dawn  of  time  ;  but  all  the  listeners 
excepting  myself  are  sufficiently  educated  to  under- 
stand it.  The  story  runs  something  in  this  wise. 
The  young  princess,  whose  part  the  bayadere  acts 
to-night,  is  loved  by  seven  young  princes  at  the  same 
time,  and  all  these  princes  are  brothers.  In  order 
that  they  may  not  cause  any  suffering  to  each  other, 
they  have  sworn  amongst  themselves  that  none  of 
them  should  ever  wed  her,  not  even  the  one  who  was 
chosen  to  be  her  husband  by  his  father  the  king,  the 
one  who  was  coming  to  seek  her  in  the  palace  in  which 
she  was  kept.  In  the  beginning  they  are  all  happy, 
contenting  themselves  with  her  friendship  and  her 
smiles.  But  one  day,  whilst  hunting  in  a  wood,  evil 
spirits,  who  had  assumed  the  form  of  white-haired 
fakirs,  came  to  tempt  each  one  separately  and  to  set 
them  against  each  other  by  false  statements.  Then 
hatred  and  unhappiness  entered  into  the  palace  with 
a  thousand  plans  of  violence  and  crime.  However, 
the  good  spirits  intervened  in  their  turn,  before  any 
wrong  had  been  committed,  and  after  a  fearful 
struggle  regained  possession  of  the  princes'  souls. 
Once  more  the  princes  found  calm  and  peace  with 
their  adopted  sister,  and  enjoyed  perfect  happiness 
in  the  fulfilment  of  their  duty.  During  one  of  the 
entr'actes,  I  went  to  the  box  of  Balamoni,  who  had 
been  told  of  my  intended  visit,  in  order  to  thank  her 
for  being  so  beautiful,  and  for  having  played  the 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  117 

young  girl's  part  with  gestures  so  pure  and  simple.  I 
found  her  in  a  plain  little  room  carpeted  with  matting, 
in  which  the  diamonds  and  ornaments  that  were 
strewn  about  seemed  as  much  out  of  place  as  the 
fantastic  presents  that  some  genii  might  have  left 
in  the  hut  of  a  shepherdess. 

As  I  reached  the  door  waiting-men,  in  accordance 
with  the  usual  custom,  place  a  thick  collar  of  natural 
flowers,  interwoven  with  gold  thread,  round  my  neck, 
and  the  hostess  offered  me  her  hand  with  an  easy  and 
assured  grace.  Her  proposal,  she  informed  me,  was 
to  revive  the  whole  of  the  ancient  Sanskrit  plays,  and 
she  professed  herself  much  flattered  when  I  mentioned 
that  I  would  speak  of  her  to  my  friends  in  France. 

I  met  the  bayadere  again  next  morning  in  a  place 
that  had  no  romance  attached  to  it ;  it  was  at  the 
station  of  the  Madras  Railway,  for,  alas  !  the  railway 
runs  through  Madura.  She  was  accompanied  by  two 
servants  and  was  going  by  train  to  visit  her  property 
in  the  country,  just  as  any  modest  and  prudent  house- 
wife might  have  done.  Truly,  in  the  midst  of  the 
rather  shabbily  attired  Indian  crowd  she  seemed  to 
have  the  air  of  a  peri  who  had  wandered  from  her 
way.  From  afar  she  could  be  seen  shining  like  a 
star,  for  there  were  diamonds  in  her  ears,  diamonds 
on  her  neck  and  bosom,  and  her  beautiful  bare  arms 
were  covered  with  diamonds  from  the  wrists  to  the 
shoulders.  Others  of  a  wondrous  limpidity  were 
attached  to  the  septum  of  her  little  quivering  nose, 
drooped  over  her  mouth.  Between  her  yellow  waist- 
band and  the  short  corset  of  lilac-coloured  silk,  a 
portion  of  her  body,  smooth  as  a  fair  column  of  metal, 
and  part  of  the  beautiful  breasts,  wrhose  outlines  were 
modestly  concealed  by  folds  of  muslin,  were  exposed 
to  view.  (In  evening  dress  our  women  expose  the 
upper  part  of  the  bosom,  and  I  cannot  see  that  it 
is  more  improper  to  show  the  lower  part,  it  lends 
itself  less  to  artificial  imposition,  that  is  all.) 

The  bayadere  comported  herself  with  so  much  re- 
serve and  dignity,  indeed,  that  I  saluted  her,  just  as  I 


n8  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

would  have  done  any  lady  of  position.  She  an- 
swered my  greeting  in  the  Indian  manner,  touching  her 
forehead  with  two  ruby-covered  hands  ;  then,  accom- 
panied by  her  maids,  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage 
"  For  ladies  only." 

I  follow  the  good  Balamoni  with  my  eyes  as  I  leave 
the  horrible  neighbourhood  of  the  station  and  make 
my  way  to  the  temple  of  the  goddess.  During  the 
course  of  the  day  some  of  her  kindly  deeds  were 
related  to  me.  This  one  amongst  others  :  last  month 
some  European  ladies  who  were  collecting  money  for 
a  Hindoo  orphanage  came  to  her,  upon  which  Bala- 
moni, with  her  beautiful  smile,  handed  them  a  note 
for  a  thousand  rupees  (about  eighty  pounds).  She  is 
charitable  to  all,  and  the  poor  know  the  road  to  her 
house  well  enough. 


VII 

THE   TEMPLE 

In  the  temples  of  India  twilight  always  comes  on 
long  before  its  usual  time,  under  the  shadow  of  low 
roofs,  that  are  heavy  and  oppressive  as  those  of 
sepulchres.  The  evening  sun  is  still  shining  in  the 
west,  but  the  little  lamps  placed  at  the  approach  of 
the  temple  of  Madura,  and  along  the  granite-covered 
avenue  that  forms  a  sort  of  prefatory  vestibule  where 
garland  sellers  are  stationed,  are  already  lighted. 
Any  one  coming  from  outside,  as  I  do,  sees  everything 
mingled  in  universal  gloom  ;  men,  idols,  monsters, 
human  faces  and  great  stone  faces,  rigid  gestures  of 
statues  who  have  too  many  arms,  and  the  real  motions 
of  men  who  have  but  two.  The  sacred  cattle,  after 
wandering  through  the  streets  all  day,  have  come  here 
too,  to  nibble  flowers  and  reeds  before  retiring  to 
sleep  in  the  temple. 

After  the  avenue,  there  is  a  door  like  a  tunnel  that 
pierces  through  a  huge  pyramid  of  gods  that  towers 
into  the  sky.  Then  we  reach  the  temple  itself,  a 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  119 

silent  and  echoing  city,  whose  vaulted  streets  cross 
one  another  in  all  directions,  and  whose  countless 
people  are  the  stone  images  graven  here.  Each 
column  and  each  monstrous  pillar  is  made  of  a  single 
block,  placed  upright  by  means  unknown  to  us — 
perhaps  by  the  united  strength  of  millions  of  sinews — 
and  afterwards  deeply  sculptured,  carved  with 
images  of  all  sorts  of  gods  and  monsters.  The  ceilings 
are  entirely  flat,  and  at  the  first  glance  it  is  difficult 
to  see  how  they  are  supported  ;  then  we  notice  that 
they  are  composed  of  single  blocks  of  stone  eight  to 
ten  metres  long,  resting  on  their  two  extremities, 
and  that  an  infinite  number  of  these  blocks  have  been 
placed  side  by  side,  just  as  ordinary  planks  are 
placed  with  us.  The  whole  structure  is  built  some- 
what in  the  manner  of  those  almost  everlasting 
edifices  of  Thebes  or  Memphis  over  which  time  has 
no  control.  Just  as  at  Chri  Ragam,  there  are  serried 
ranks  of  prancing  horses,  that  beat  the  air  with  their 
fore  feet,  and  rows  of  gods  that  die  away  into  the 
dimmest  distance  in  lines  of  fading  perspective.  The 
antiquity  of  the  columns  is  only  to  be  divined  from 
the  worn  surfaces  near  their  base,  or  from  the  blackish 
polish  that  covers  everything  within  reach  of  bodies 
or  hands  ;  a  polish  that  only  the  constant  and  daily 
contact  of  animals  and  men  can  give.  Magnificence 
and  filth,  a  combination  of  Titanic  luxury  and  barbaric 
negligence.  Garlands,  reeds,  and  leafy  branches  of 
banyan,  that  have  been  suspended  from  one  column 
to  the  other  to  celebrate  some  festival,  now  lie  on  the 
ground  in  putrefying  masses  ;  properties  belonging  to 
the  processions,  fantastic  animals,  white  elephants  of 
natural  size  made  from  paper  or  paste-board,  lie 
crumbling  and  rotting  in  the  corners.  Sacred  cattle 
and  real  elephants  wander  freely  through  the  naves 
and  drop  their  dung  on  the  greasy  and  slippery  pave- 
ments that  their  feet  have  polished.  Great  vampire 
bats  swarm  amongst  the  lofty  vaults,  but  their  black 
wings  sweep  so  noiselessly  among  the  roofs  that  no 
sound  is  heard. 


120  IN   THE  LAND  OF 

From  an  inner  court  that  is  open  to  the  sky,  I  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  fading  evening  light.  It  is  un- 
occupied, but  some  peacocks  are  perched  with  out- 
spread tails  on  the  granite  monsters.  Above  the 
surrounding  walls  those  red  and  green  towers,  those 
surprising  pyramids  of  gods,  are  visible  at  varied 
distances  ;  half-way  up  amidst  the  divinities,  swallows 
and  parrots  flutter  round  their  nests  ;  but  nearer  the 
bristling  points  of  the  summit,  still  shimmering  in  the 
sun,  crows  and  eagles  are  wheeling  madly  through 
the  air. 

Outside  this  courtyard,  and  in  a  more  concealed 
part  of  the  sanctuary,  I  chance  upon  the  priest  to 
whom  I  was  specially  recommended,  the  one  who  can 
show  me  the  adornments  of  the  goddess. 

It  seems  that  I  cannot  see  them  to-morrow,  for  to- 
morrow is  a  day  of  high  religious  festival.  Just  as 
the  Vishnu  of  Chri  Ragam  makes  the  yearly  round  of 
his  temple  in  a  car,  so  the  Siva  and  Parvati  of  Madura 
make  an  annual  excursion  by  boat  in  a  great  lake  that 
has  been  hollowed  out  for  them  ;  and  this  happens  to 
be  the  evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the 
sacred  promenade. 

But,  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  so  soon  as  it  is 
light  in  the  temple,  the  doors  of  the  secret  vaults  shall 
be  thrown  open,  and  the  treasures  displayed  before  me. 


VIII 
THE   BOAT   OF  SIVA 

Need  I  mention  that  the  boat  is  a  huge  and  ex- 
travagant thing,  though  it  is  but  temporary,  and  a 
new  one  is  built  each  year  ?  Upon  a  hull  suited  to  a 
three-decked  ship,  a  sort  of  fairy  palace  is  made  from 
bamboo  framework  covered  with  silk  or  gilt  paper ; 
then  there  are  towers  like  those  of  the  temples,  paper 
horses  and  elephants,  and  the  whole  surface  is  covered 
by  waving  streamers.  All  the  same  our  European 
eyes  are  fascinated  by  the  extreme  strangeness,  and 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  121 

the  archaic  and  Eastern  imagery  with  which  it  is 
decorated. 

It  is  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  burning  sun 
pours  its  fires  upon  the  lake  and  its  deserted  banks. 
The  boat  is  waiting  there,  moored  to  a  granite  stair- 
way, new  and  resplendent  in  the  midst  of  the  old  and 
unchanging  scene.  Though  this  is  the  hour  fixed  for 
the  embarkment  of  Siva,  no  one  comes  and  nothing 
even  stirs. 

The  lake  on  which  the  boat  rests  has  been  dug  out 
by  human  hands,  and  is  a  square  some  six  to  eight 
hundred  metres  across  ;  granite  staircases  line  its 
four  sides  and  allow  the  faithful  to  descend  to  its  holy 
waters  ;  in  the  middle  of  the  lake  is  a  square  island 
that  has  towers  at  each  of  its  corners ;  whilst  in  the 
middle  of  the  island  an  entirely  white  pagoda  stands 
in  a  garden  of  banyan  trees.  The  banks  present  large 
open  spaces  where  crowds  may  congregate,  but  now 
these  shores  are  overwhelmed  by  light  and  heat ;  in 
the  vicinity  there  are  curtains  of  verdure,  banyans, 
palm  trees,  and  some  temples  ;  but  they  are  quite 
distant  from  the  temple  of  the  goddess,  and  almost 
in  the  country. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  approaching  tom-toms  ;  the 
procession  is  coming.  Soon  it  issues  from  a  shady 
avenue  and  advances  into  the  sunlight,  into  the  small 
burning  desert  where  the  lake  and  the  strange  ship 
slumber. 

Cardboard  giants,  some  ten  or  fifteen  feet  high,  that 
roll  and  totter  on  the  shoulders  of  their  bearers,  come 
first,  followed  by  artificial  elephants  carried  on  men's 
backs  ;  then  six  real  elephants  clothed  in  long  red 
robes  entirely  covered  with  spangles,  and  a  score  of 
huge  red  parasols  of  the  ancient  Asiatic  form  that  was 
fashionable  in  the  processions  of  Babylon  or  Nineveh. 
Next  come  the  tom-toms  and  the  screeching  bagpipes  ; 
and  lastly  the  great  gilt  palanquins  of  Siva  and  the 
gods  of  his  race. 

No  crowd  follows  ;  the  procession  is  quite  unac- 
companied, and  it  does  not  seem  to  have  aroused  any 


122  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

interest  on  its  way  through  Madura.  Slowly  it  makes 
the  round  of  the  lake,  under  the  ever-burning  rays  of 
the  sun,  and  at  last  stops  before  the  boat ;  but  no 
curious  eye  has  even  come  to  look. 

They  next  go  through  the  ceremony  of  embarkation, 
which  takes  place  in  the  following  order  :  the  two  sons 
of  Siva,  Siva  himself,  and  lastly  Parvati  his  wife. 
Some  ancient  boatmen,  who  doubtless  have  been 
attached  to  this  service  for  many  years,  advance  from 
the  lake,  the  water  dripping  from  their  hairy  bodies 
as  they  approach  the  palanquins.  How  different  this 
is  from  the  placing  of  Vishnu  in  his  car,  that  ceremony 
so  mysteriously  accomplished  at  Chri  Ragam  during 
the  night  when  the  god  was  hidden  by  so  many  veils. 
I  remain  quite  close,  and  no  one  troubles  about  me  or 
even  requests  me  to  retire.  The  curtains  of  the 
palanquins  are  wide  open,  and  perhaps  on  this 
occasion  I  may  see  the  idols  that  have  been  worshipped 
and  dreaded  for  so  many  centuries. 

Oh !  how  can  I  express  the  surprise  and  the  feeling 
of  horror  that  they  gave  me  as  they  passed  close  by, 
supported  on  magnificent  cushions,  carried  on  the 
wrinkled  arms  of  old  and  naked  servitors.  Evil- 
looking  little  dolls  that  seemed  flexible  and  boneless, 
and  whose  necks  had  sunk  between  their  shoulders 
under  the  weight  of  their  jewelled  tiaras.  Little 
rose-coloured  faces  of  the  size  of  an  orange  (why  rose 
when  the  Indian  race  is  bronze-coloured  ?),  thin  lips 
and  closed  eyes  that  had  no  lashes,  thdy  might  well 
be  styled  human  embryos,  still-born  abortions  that 
retained  a  fierce  expression  even  in  their  eternal  sleep. 
Yet  in  spite  of  their  sullen  look  they  have  an  air  of 
repletion,  an  almost  drunken  weariness  in  the  midst 
of  the  profusion  of  necklaces,  diamonds,  rubies,  and 
wreaths  of  fine  pearls  with  which  their  miserable 
bodies  are  loaded.  Great  golden  ears  loaded  with 
precious  rings  are  hung  on  each  side  of  their  heads, 
and  false  hands  of  gold,  that  are  much  too  large,  with 
long  nails,  are  attached  to  their  hands,  whilst  large 
golden  feet  dangle  from  their  legs. 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  123 

A  tiny  hand,  which  looks  like  that  of  a  foetus  or  of 
a  monkey,  has  escaped  from  its  huge  golden  gauntlet 
and  lies  there  a  crumpled  mass  of  the  same  rosy  colour 
as  the  idol's  face. 

The  orchestra  of  tom-toms  and  bagpipes  plays  with 
frenzied  fury  as  the  hairy  boatmen  carry  off  these 
ancient  still-born  children,  wrapped  in  glittering 
brocades  and  jewels  that  gleam  in  the  dazzling  sunlight. 
Now  they  seat  them  on  thrones  that  are  placed  at  the 
bottom  of  the  boat,  where  they  remain  invisible  en- 
shrouded by  thick  curtains. 

It  is  all  over  now.  The  procession,  the  elephants, 
and  the  parasols  vanish,  and  once  more  the  banks  of 
the  lake  are  deserted.  The  fantastic  boat  waits  for 
the  evening,  then,  when  the  moonlight  shines,  its 
wanderings  will  begin. 

Night  has  come  once  more,  and  this  old  Hindoostan 
finds  peace  ;  its  glaring  lights  and  mad  excesses  of 
brilliancy  and  colour  are  now  swathed  in  shade. 
Now,  too,  the  moonbeams  penetrate  the  pall  of  bluish 
darkness  that  has  settled  on  the  earth  and  irradiate 
everytlung  with  their  soft  and  silvery  light.  Crowds 
of  the  faithful  hasten  to  kindle  rows  of  wicks  dipped 
in  oil  that  have  been  placed  along  the  three  tiers  of 
descending  steps  which  extend  around  the  lake  ;  and 
soon  the  immense  extent  of  the  square  pond  is  out- 
lined by  a  triple  line  of  fire.  The  pagoda  on  the 
island  in  the  centre  is  illuminated  also,  delineated  in 
lines  of  palms,  though  it  still  remains  white  in  the 
gleaming  moonlight. 

The  crowd  has  been  assembling  since  sunset.  All 
the  leafy  avenues  of  tangled  banyan  trees,  which  lead 
here  from  the  country  and  the  town,  pour  forth  their 
floods  of  humanity  on  to  the  shores  of  the  sacred  lake. 
Thousands  and  thousands  of  heads  are  now  gathered 
by  the  banks,  like  pebbles  on  a  shore,  to  pay  honour 
to  Siva  ;  dark  and  delicate  Indian  heads  that  are 
smaller  than  those  of  Europeans,  and  which  seem  to 
find  room  for  feelings  of  the  most  ardent  mysticism 
and  the  most  glowing  sensuality.  (These  two  things 


124  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

are  often  associated,  though,  alas !  the  recognition 
of  the  fact  may  well  fill  us  with  dismay.) 

Each  one  who  comes  to  the  lake  of  Siva  carries  a 
long  reed,  still  decked  with  leaves,  across  his  shoulders, 
so  that  the  multitude  almost  looks  like  a  field  of  grain. 
The  elephants  of  the  great  temple,  that  have  been 
brought  back  at  nightfall,  now  look  like  rocks  or 
islands  scattered  in  the  midst  of  this  moving  plain  of 
vegetation,  from  which  the  dark  outlines  of  Hindoo 
heads  sometimes  protrude. 

Near  the  fantastic  boat,  that  floating  palace  with 
its  gilt  towers  on  which  Bengal  fires  constantly  burn, 
an  agitated  crowd  is  seen.  To  the  sound  of  music 
the  towing  ropes  are  brought  forward  and  laid  along 
the  ground,  then,  with  shouts  of  joy,  hundreds  of  the 
faithful  seize  them  with  convulsive  grasp.  Those 
who  cannot  take  place  by  the  tightly-stretched  rope 
plunge  into  the  lake  bespattering  everything  ;  with 
water  up  to  their  waists  they  push  the  boat  from  behind 
or  draw  it  by  its  side,  or  at  least  walk  in  its  wake. 

The  noise  increases,  and  the  tom-toms  and  the 
bag-pipes  play  furiously  ;  the  boat  has  started  and 
now  moves  smoothly  past  the  granite  edges  of  the 
lake.  The  god  and  the  goddess  have  begun  their 
oft-repeated  journey  under  a  moon  that  seems  to 
shine  with  more  than  usual  splendour.  The  gentle 
elephants  covered  with  tinkling  bells  follow  along  the 
banks  with  hesitating  steps,  fearful  lest  they  tread 
upon  some  child  or  injure  the  crowds  so  closely 
thronged  about  them. 


IX 

THE  TREASURES  OF  THE  GODDESS  WITH  THE 
FISH'S  EYES 

I  went  to  the  temple  this  morning,  immediately  the 
sun  rose,  in  order  to  see  the  treasures  of  the  goddess. 
The  inclosure  contains  two  sanctuaries.  The  larger 
is  dedicated  to  Siva,  under  the  name  of  Sundareehvar 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  125 

(the  blessed  one).  The  other  on  the  right,  opposite 
the  Patramaral  (the  pond  of  the  golden  lily),  is  dedi- 
cated to  his  wife  Parvati,  who  is  also  named  Minakchi 
(the  goddess  with  the  fish's  eyes). 

An  animated  throng  already  surrounds  the  laby- 
rinth of  stone,  and  all  the  niches  between  the  dread- 
ful statues  and  the  granite  stalls  are  occupied  by 
flower  sellers,  who  weave  garlands  of  marigolds, 
Bengal  roses,  and  gold  thread.  A  continuous  stream 
of  half -clothed  men  passes  by,  their  hair  still  dripping 
with  water  from  the  morning  ablution,  and  their  eyes 
yet  lost  in  the  land  of  prayer  and  dreams.  The  sacred 
elephants  and  cattle  that  dwell  in  the  dusky  naves, 
the  birds  of  the  sky  that  nest  in  the  towers  or  amongst 
the  red  pyramids,  all  tremble  with  joy  and  life  in  the 
fresh  morning  air,  and  their  cries,  bellowings,  and 
songs  are  heard  in  all  directions. 

I  find  the  priests  awaiting  at  the  appointed  place  to 
conduct  me  to  the  hidden  recesses. 

A  heavy  copper  door  that  leads  to  the  secret  part 
of  the  temple  is  thrown  open,  then  after  traversing  a 
nave  bordered  with  black  gods  that  loom  out  of  a 
cavern-like  darkness,  I  find  myself  in  the  midst  of 
a  pure  light  by  the  pond  that  is  named  "  the  pond 
of  the  golden  lily."  It  is  a  deep  square  of  water  open 
to  the  sky,  and  its  sides  are  surrounded  by  granite 
steps  which  lead  down  to  the  water.  Exquisite 
colonnades,  supporting  a  roof  that  is  sculptured  and 
painted  in  a  grave,  formal  manner,  run  round  the 
four  sides  and  form  a  cloister  in  which  Brahmins  can 
walk  and  meditate.  One  side  of  the  jealously  guarded 
inclosure  is  still  bathed  in  a  half  light  that  is  fresh 
and  blue,  whilst  the  other  is  illuminated  in  tones  of 
rose-red  by  the  morning  sun.  Above  the  cloisters 
that  surround  the  lake  with  an  unbroken  line,  the 
towers  of  the  temples,  those  same  prodigious  red 
pyramids  of  gods  that  tower  over  everything  and  that 
are  seen  from  all  sides,  shine  in  the  bright  firmament 
at  various  heights  and  unequal  distances,  each  sur- 
rounded by  its  wheeling  flight  of  birds.  A  sparkling 


126  IN  THE  LAND   OF 

golden  cupola  is  also  seen  towering  into  the  sky.  It 
is  the  cupola  of  the  holy  of  holies,  that  place  of 
mystery  to  which  no  human  influence  can  ever  give 
me  access.  Oh  !  what  a  strange  lake  this  is,  motionless 
as  if  enchanted.  The  columns  standing  round  it  are 
reflected,  lengthened,  doubled,  and  reversed  in  water 
that  is  untarnished  by  a  single  ripple,  in  water  that 
seems  dead,  in  a  prison  of  magnificent  severity.  A 
nameless  peace  hovers  over  this  "  pond  of  the  golden 
lily,"  this  mirror  of  the  sun,  the  clouds,  and  the  stars, 
that  lies  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  immense  temples. 

I  have  given  up  trying  to  recollect  by  what  ways  the 
priests  are  leading  me  amidst  the  labyrinth  of  arches. 
The  more  we  advance,  the  more  monstrous  and 
oppressive  our  surroundings  become.  Everything  is 
built  of  stones,  whose  mass  grows  more  enormous 
at  every  step.  Twenty-armed  gods,  with  their  huge 
and  varied  attitudes,  swarm  amid  the  gloom,  and  I 
pass  by  endless  rows  of  them  standing  in  tortured 
postures.  I  walk  in  a  dreamland  that  is  peopled  by 
giants  and  shapes  of  terror.  It  is  dark  around  me, 
and  our  footsteps  wake  echoes  that  seem  to  issue 
from  a  tomb. 

The  sculptures  become  more  prodigious  and  every- 
thing grows  more  magnificent,  but  at  the  same  time 
all  is  more  filthy  and  more  barbarously  uncared-for. 
To  the  height  of  a  man  the  walls  and  ledges  are 
polished  and  black  with  filth  and  wet.  We  are  in  a 
gallery  consecrated  to  the  elephant -headed  god  Ganesa, 
whose  monstrous  form  is  illuminated  from  below  by 
several  smoky  flames  that  burn  close  by  his  trunk 
and  feet.  Here,  in  a  loathsome  corner  that  is  quite 
dark,  a  herd  of  living  creatures,  whose  breathing  is 
plainly  audible,  stand  amidst  monsters  whose  con- 
torted attitudes  are  graven  out  of  stone.  An  idle 
family  of  zebu  cows,  who  continue  to  sleep  as  though 
the  sun  had  not  risen  yet.  We  slip  in  the  dung  with 
which  the  stones  are  covered,  but  no  one  dares  to 
throw  it  out,  for  all  that  comes  from  the  cattle  is  as 
sacred  as  the  cattle  themselves.  Above  our  heads 


».     Twt: 

AVKXUK    OF    OREOttOXA     1'AI.MS 


in  a  loathsome  ec 
are  graven. out  o 

tW*i      VI  fit  • 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  127 

huge  bats  flutter  their  widely  extended  wings  in  terror 
and  bewilderment. 

Once,  as  we  were  passing  by  a  high  and  gloomy 
nave  at  the  bottom  of  which  I  could  dimly  see  some 
colossal  divinities  lit  up  by  several  lamps,  my  guides 
seemed  to  hasten  their  footsteps  and  to  be  filled  with 
uneasiness.  One  of  the  Brahmins  who  was  guiding 
me  turned  round  and  whispered  that  we  had  passed 
the  holy  of  holies,  but  that  he  had  only  told  me  after 
we  had  passed  for  fear  that  I  might  have  seen  too 
much.  The  priests  at  length  halted  in  a  vast  and 
superb  spot,  a  sort  of  square  lying  in  a  forest  of  massive 
columns,  a  place  into  which  several  cathedrals  seemed 
to  open,  for  naves  led  off  in  every  direction,  and  lost 
themselves  in  gloom.  We  are  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  gigantic  gods,  hewn  from  a  single  block  of  stone, 
who  brandish  lances,  swords,  and  skulls,  but  their 
figures  are  black,  shining,  and  greasy,  for  they  have 
drunk  of  the  sweat  of  the  countless  hands  that  have 
lingered  on  them.  There  are  many  altars  gleaming 
with  objects  of  copper  and  silver  ;  many  pyramids  of 
bronze  that  time  has  almost  worn  out,  but  which  once 
held  torches  and  played  some  mysterious  part  in  the 
worship  of  the  goddess.  In  the  middle  there  is  a 
swarming  crowd  of  the  nude,  long-haired  beggars  who 
haunt  the  vicinity  of  every  temple  ;  the  guardians 
drive  and  shove  them  away  with  many  cries,  for  they 
throng  importunately  round  a  sort  of  barrier  that  has 
been  made  by  attaching  two  cords  from  one  pillar  to 
another. 

A  portion  of  the  strained  cord  is  lowered  so  that  I 
may  pass,  then  raised  once  more  so  as  to  inclose  the 
priests  and  myself  within  its  circle.  In  front  of  me 
there  is  a  table  of  great  extent  covered  with  a  black 
carpet  on  which  are  heaped  the  treasures  of  the 
goddess. 

A  chair  is  placed  for  me  near  the  piles  of  gold  and 
precious  stones,  and  a  garland  of  marigolds  is  hung 
round  my  neck.  Now  the  priests  hand  me  the  ancient 
jewels  they  have  left  their  hiding-place  for  one  little 


128  IN  THE  LAND   OF 

hour ;  they  beg  me  to  handle  them,  and  find  amuse- 
ment in  throwing  them,  one  after  the  other,  on  to  my 
knees.  There  are  dozens  of  golden  tiaras,  ornamented 
with  stones  of  many  colours,  ropes  of  pearls,  and  rubies 
that  resemble  boa-constrictors. 

Bracelets  a  thousand  years  old  ;  ancient  neck-pieces 
so  heavy  that  they  can  hardly  be  lifted  with  one  hand. 
Great  urns  like  those  the  women  carry  on  their 
shoulders  when  they  go  to  draw  water  from  the  well, 
but  these  are  hammered  and  chased  out  of  fine  gold. 
There  is  a  chest  ornament,  a  plate  of  wondrous  blue, 
made  from  uncut  sapphires  large  as  nuts. 

The  sound  of  far-off  music  reaches  me  from  the  back 
of  the  temple  as  these  strange  riches  are  poured  into 
my  hands  ;  the  growling  of  tom-toms  and  the  deafen- 
ing plaint  of  sacred  shells  and  bagpipes.  From  time 
to  time  there  are  sounds  of  strife  behind  me,  the  cries 
of  the  guardians  chasing  away  the  horde  of  famished 
beggars,  whose  thronging  threatens  the  frail  barrier 
of  rope.  Now  they  show  me  stirrups  of  heavy  gold 
inlaid  with  diamonds,  doubtless  used  by  the  goddess 
when  she  rides  abroad.  There  are  the  false  ears  in 
gold,  with  pendants  of  fine  pearls,  that  they  hang  on 
each  side  of  her  rose-coloured  doll-like  face  when  the 
procession  day  arrives.  Here,  too,  the  false  hands  and 
feet  of  gold  which  they  fasten  to  the  ends  of  her  half- 
formed  extremities  each  time  that  she  forsakes  the 
temple's  shade  to  make  her  solemn  wandering. 

I  believed  that  all  was  over  when  once  the  trea- 
sures, with  which  the  table  was  so  extravagantly 
laden,  were  exhausted.  But  it  was  not  so ;  the 
priests  led  me  through  dark  galleries,  filled  with 
dreadful  shapes,  to  a  court  in  which  sounds  were 
heard  like  those  of  clear  and  lively  trumpet  notes. 
There,  clothed  in  red  robes,  the  six  sacred  elephants 
were  standing  in  the  sunlight  waving  their  large 
transparent  ears.  On  my  appearance  they  at  once 
knelt  down,  though  the  fan-like  motion  of  the  ears 
was  uninterrupted.  Then  when  I  had  bestowed  on 
each  the  silver  offering  that  their  small,  shrewd  eyes 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  129 

sought  for,  they  rose  up  and  departed  with  the 
ambling  gait  of  contented  bears.  They  went  hap- 
hazard or  where  they  listed,  for  they  have  full  liberty 
to  wander  through  all  these  passages  and  naves. 

The  halls  through  which  I  am  now  conducted  are 
built  and  roofed  with  enormous  blocks,  and  have  the 
look  of  cyclopean  caverns.  Attendants,  who  accom- 
pany us,  climb  up  the  walls  to  draw  back  the  mat 
blinds  that  cover  air-holes  of  irregular  shape,  but  it 
is  in  vain.  It  is  really  so  dark  that  we  must  have 
lamps.  Naked  children  run  to  fetch  lamps  and 
torches  of  an  antique  form  that  burn  smokily  at  the 
extremities  of  long  bronze  stalks,  or  on  the  ends  of 
supports  bent  into  the  form  of  a  horn. 

A  door  covered  with  iron  is  thrown  open,  and  our 
young  torch-bearers  enter  first. 

We  are  in  one  of  the  fantastic  stables  of  the  god- 
dess. A  silver  cow  and  some  golden  horses  of  natural 
size  are  ranged  there,  bathed  in  a  perpetual  night 
and  a  constant  damp  heat. 

Now  the  children  approach  the  rudely  sculptured 
figures,  and  the  shining  gems  with  which  the  harness 
is  studded  are  seen  to  glitter  in  the  torches'  flame. 
Above  our  heads,  somewhere  in  the  awe-inspiring 
granite  roof,  we  hear  the  shrill  cries  and  the  constant 
fluttering  of  featherless  wings  made  by  the  crowd  of 
vampires  that  fly  above  us  in  maddened  wheelings. 

There  is  a  second  door  cased  with  iron  ;  another 
stable  for  animals  of  silver  and  of  gold. 

A  third  and  last  door.  Here  live  a  silver  lion,  a 
huge  golden  peacock,  with  fully  expanded  tail,  whose 
eyes  are  made  of  uncut  emeralds,  and  a  golden  cow 
with  the  face  of  a  woman  of  supernatural  size,  who 
wears  jewels  in  her  ears  and  jewels  in  the  division  of 
her  nose  in  the  manner  of  the  Indian  women.  Golden 
sedan  chairs  for  the  use  of  the  goddess  are  stabled 
in  the  corners ;  state  palanquins,  wholly  made  of 
gold,  wrought  with  precious  carvings  and  inlaid  with 
flowers  of  diamonds  and  rubies. 

The  naked  children  cast  the  light  of  their  curved 

9 


130  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

handled  torches  on  these  fabulous  treasures,  but  as 
the  torches  give  more  smoke  than  light  I  can  only 
see  a  detail  here  and  there,  or  the  glint  of  a  precious 
stone,  and  the  rest  of  the  cavern  is  plunged  in  a 
sepulchral  and  oppressive  gloom.  The  walls  are 
covered  with  spiders'  webs  and  little  stalactites,  and 
in  places  saltpetre  and  slime  ooze  out  of  them.  The 
startled  vampires  wheel  noiselessly  round  us,  and  as 
they  flit  by  we  feel  as  if  a  tattered  dark  material 
had  swept  past  us,  and  hear  a  shrill  cry  like  that  of 
a  rat  caught  in  a  trap. 


TOWARDS   PONDICHEERY 

Leaving  the  country  of  Madura  in  a  northerly 
direction,  and  ascending  towards  Pondicherry,  we 
gradually  forsake  the  damp  region  of  the  great  palms. 
Their  shady  clumps  are  farther  apart  and  give  place 
to  fields  of  grain,  plantations,  and  rice  patches.  The 
air  gradually  becomes  less  oppressive,  but  the  country 
is  not  so  well  watered  and  the  whole  land  seems 
changed. 

An  air  of  pastoral  tranquillity  reigns,  though  the 
inhabitants  are  more  sparsely  scattered  than  those 
of  Europe.  Troops  of  goats,  and  herds  of  small 
humped  cattle  graze  on  the  fast  ripening  grass  that 
still  remains,  watched  over  by  naked  shepherds,  and 
by  shepherdesses  wrapped  in  scarlet  cloth. 

Each  village  of  mud  and  thatched  house  has  its 
Brahmin  temple,  whose  pyramid  of  gods  and  whose 
monsters  that  lean  over  the  walls  crumble  away  to 
reddish  dust  in  the  burning  rays  of  the  terrible  sun. 
At  long  intervals  there  are  masses  of  enormous  trees, 
under  whose  shade  gods  seated  on  thrones  are  ever  to 
be  found,  guarded  by  stone  horses  or  cows  that  have 
kept  watch  there  for  many  centuries. 

The  red  dust ;  the  red  dust  that  hourly  assumes  a 
greater  mastery.  Dryness  also  becomes  more  marked, 


HINDOO  WOMAN  AND  BABE. 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  131 

and  we  hasten  through  regions  which  are  suffering 
from  a  drought  that  is  probably  exceptional,  and 
where  the  sky  has  a  fixed  blue  limpidity  that  looks 
eternal. 

On  all  sides  husbandmen  are  labouring  at  the 
work  of  irrigation,  which  they  carry  out  by  means  of 
the  ingenious  methods  of  olden  times.  Men  may  be 
seen  standing  knee-deep  in  all  the  streams  that 
surround  the  rice-fields,  each  couple  holding  an  ex- 
tended sheep-skin  by  the  cords  which  are  attached 
to  it ;  they  swing  it  with  an  automatic  movement 
that  is  guided  by  the  refrain  they  sing,  and  in  turn 
fill  it  and  empty  its  contents  into  a  gutter  situated 
at  a  higher  level,  from  which  the  water  runs  among 
the  furrows  of  rice  that  still  looks  fresh  and  green. 

The  wells,  which  are  always  placed  under  the  trees, 
are  worked  in  a  different  manner,  and  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  different  melody.  A  bucket  is  fastened 
to  the  end  of  a  very  long  pole,  which  is  balanced  on 
the  top  of  an  upright  mast ;  two  men  walk  erect  on 
this  pole,  supporting  themselves  with  the  graceful 
agility  of  gymnasts  by  clinging  to  the  branches  of 
the  neighbouring  trees  ;  they  take  three  steps  in  one 
direction,  and  the  pole  dips  towards  the  well  and  the 
bucket  fills ;  three  steps  in  the  reverse  direction, 
and  the  pole  rises  and  the  bucket  swings  in  the  air  ; 
and  so  they  go  on,  from  morning  to  night,  never  ceas- 
ing to  sing. 

As  we  proceed  the  dryness  threatens  to  become 
disastrous,  and  we  soon  pass  the  first  dead  trees. 
These  are  burnt  up  as  if  by  fire,  and  their  leaves  are 
curled  up  and  coated  by  the  red  dust  which  attacks 
the  monuments  of  the  south,  but  which  here  casts  its 
blood-coloured  stain  over  the  plants  themselves. 
Face  to  face  with  this  thirsty  land  and  rainless  heaven 
how  impotent  our  little  human  efforts  seem,  little 
buckets  of  water  hauled  up  one  after  the  other  from 
the  bottom  of  wells  whose  springs  are  gradually  dry- 
ing up.  Now  we  begin  to  understand  the  reality 
and  to  feel  the  approach  of  the  frightful  famine 


132  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

which  before  our  arrival  in  India  only  seemed  to  us 
like  a  pre-historic  plague  that  was  quite  inexcusable 
in  these  days  of  civilization,  when  steamboats  and 
railways  were  at  hand  to  bring  food  to  those  who 
were  dying  of  hunger. 


XI 
AT    PONDICHERRY 

The  woods  of  coco-nuts  and  the  great  palms  re- 
appear as  we  approach  Pondicherry,  our  tiny  and 
decaying  colony.  The  region  around  has  so  far  been 
spared  by  the  drought,  and  looks  like  an  oasis  which 
the  streams  and  the  rain  have  not  ceased  to  water, 
and  which  in  some  way  recalls  the  beautiful  verdure 
of  the  south. 

Pondicherry !  amongst  the  names  of  all  the  ancient 
colonies  which  exercised  so  great  a  fascination  over 
my  childish  mind,  those  of  Pondicherry  and  Goree 
were  the  ones  that  most  readily  called  up  the  dreams 
of  strange  and  foreign  lands  that  ever  haunted  me. 
Towards  my  tenth  year,  an  aged  grand-aunt  spoke 
to  me  one  evening  of  a  friend  who  had  lived  at 
Pondicherry,  and  read  me  a  passage  from  one  of  her 
letters,  which  even  then  was  half  a  century  old,  and 
in  which  she  spoke  of  palm  trees  and  pagodas. 

Oh  !  what  feelings  of  melancholy  come  over  me  as 
I  reach  the  charming  and  far-distant  town,  where 
amidst  the  mouldering  walls  an  entire  chapter  of 
ancient  French  history  slumbers. 

There  are  little  streets  almost  like  those  that  are 
hidden  in  our  own  peaceful  provinces,  little  straight 
streets  bordered  by  old  and  low  whitewashed  houses 
standing  amid  the  red  earth  ;  garden  walls,  over 
which  tropical  flowers  and  bindweeds  fall ;  barred 
windows  behind  which  pale-faced  Creoles  or  lovely 
Eurasians,  whose  eyes  gleam  with  Indian  mystery, 
may  be  seen.  "  Rue  Royale,''  "  Rue  Dupleix  " — one 
can  read  these  names  cut  in  the  stone  in  the  ancient 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  133 

letters  of  the  eighteenth  century,  just  as  I  remember 
to  have  seen  them  at  the  street  corners  of  my  native 
town  on  some  of  the  older  houses.  "  Rue  Saint 
Louis  "  and  "  Quay  de  la  Ville  Blanche,"  the  word 
"  quay  '.'  spelt  with  a  "  y." 

In  the  centre  of  Pondicherry  there  is  a  large,  over- 
grown, and  deserted  square,  ornamented  in  the  middle 
by  an  elaborate  fountain  whose  age  does  not,  I 
think,  exceed  one  hundred  years,  though  the  glare 
of  the  all-devouring  sun  has  made  it  look  much 
older.  Somehow  this  open  space  conveys  an  im- 
pression of  infinite  sadness,  though  I  am  quite  in- 
capable of  saying  why. 

From  the  very  first,  I,  who  feel  myself  so  much  of 
a  stranger  in  the  rest  of  India,  am  possessed  by  a 
feeling  of  charm — that  olden  charm  of  one's  native 
land  which  nothing  can  replace,  and  that  our  newer 
colonies  of  the  extreme  East  do  not  yet  possess,  in 
that  they  have  had  no  past. 

It  is  but  a  tiny  little  town  that  exists  on  its  tradi- 
tions, that  lives  but  because  it  has  lived,  systematic- 
ally isolated  from  the  rest  of  India  by  our  hostile 
neighbours,  and  having  neither  port  nor  anchorage 
on  the  Gulf  of  Bengal  where  our  boats  can  shelter. 
Electricity  and  smoking  funnels  are  wanted  also,  and 
here  are  no  hurrying  throngs  as  at  Madras  or  Cal- 
cutta, and  neither  strangers  nor  tourists  ;  for  as 
Pondicherry  is  not  on  the  direct  route,  who  would 
be  likely  to  come  to  see  it  ? 

Facing  the  sea  there  is  a  garden  where  a  band 
plays  at  sundown,  and  is  the  evening  resort  of  a 
number  of  pale-faced  children  ;  some  of  them  born 
in  France,  others  in  the  land  of  exile.  There, 
amongst  beautiful  tropical  trees,  a  quantity  of  columns 
have  been  erected  around  the  statue  of  Dupleix — 
columns  so  tall  and  fine  that  they  resemble  ships' 
masts.  These  precious  monoliths,  these  reeds  of 
granite,  sculptured  in  Indian  style,  bear  witness  to 
our  bygone  greatness,  for  the  Maharajah  of  the 
country  gave  them  to  this  same  Dupleix  in  olden 


134  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

times  so  that  he  might  embellish  the  palace  of  France 
with  them.  But,  alas  !  the  palace  was  never  built. 

An  angry  sea,  on  which  no  sails  are  visible,  and 
whose  appearance  is  as  hostile  and  prison-like  as  that 
of  Travancore,  breaks  into  foaming  billows  along  the 
shore.  An  iron  pier  juts  out  into  the  water,  permit- 
ting communication  with  the  packets  that  anchor 
opposite  the  shore,  but  which  remain  for  as  short  a 
time  as  possible.  Several  large  boats  are  lying 
wrecked  along  the  sands,  of  themselves  proving  the 
insecurity  of  the  coasts,  so  massive  and  solid  are 
they,  so  well  fitted  for  the  struggle. 

"  Pondicherry,  the  town  of  palaces,"  as  it  is  called 
in  India.  There  are,  in  fact,  several  beautiful  old 
dwellings  with  Greek  colonnades  near  the  Govern- 
ment House  Buildings,  in  the  midst  of  gardens  which 
slumber  behind  lowered  mat-blinds,  that  may  well 
justify  this  appellation. 

In  addition  to  the  officers  and  functionaries  of  the 
colony,  some  Creole  families,  who  came  during  the 
heroic  epoch,  and  who,  after  four  or  five  generations, 
have  become  quite  acclimatized,  are  to  be  found  here. 
I  saw  ancient  dames  whose  manners  were  gentle  and 
old-fashioned  ;  charming  old  salons,  pervaded  by  a 
tinge  of  melancholy,  furnished  with  sofas  and  chairs 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  Louis  XVI  and 
Empire  clocks,  all  of  which  must  have  made  the 
hazardous  journey  by  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  in 
the  days  when  the  passage  by  Egypt  had  not  been 
foreseen.  How  many  hours  of  languid  existence, 
how  many  minutes  of  wearied  exile,  have  not  these 
clocks  of  olden  days  numbered  ?  It  is  foolish,  I 
know,  but  the  clocks  of  olden  days  that  I  see  in  the 
colonies  always  arrest  my  thoughts. 

The  native  town  that  clusters  by  the  "  white  city  " 
is  large,  animated,  and  quite  Hindoo,  with  its  bazaars, 
palm  trees,  and  pagodas.  But  the  Indians  are 
French  Indians,  and  hold  fast  to  France,  or  at  least, 
are  pleased  to  say  so. 

I  cannot  say  how  touched  I  was  at  the  reception 


A  HINDOO  ACTRESS. 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  135 

accorded  me  by  a  certain  purely  native  club  that  was 
established  by  Indian  initiative  to  promote  the  read- 
ing of  our  books  and  reviews. 

In  order  to  extend  further  the  knowledge  of  our 
language  a  school  has  been  added.  Oh  !  what  ador- 
able little  scholars  were  presented  to  me.  Children 
of  about  eight  years  of  age,  with  refined  bronze  faces 
and  such  courteous  and  well-schooled  manners. 
Some  are  clothed  like  little  rajahs  in  robes  of  gold- 
embroidered  velvet,  but  they  can  work  out  problems 
on  the  blackboard  and  do  exercises  that  would  per- 
plex the  majority  of  our  school  children. 


XII 
THE  DANCE  OF  THE  BAYADERE 

The  young  painted  face,  with  eyes  of  excessive 
length,  draws  near.  The  young  face  with  the  impress 
of  gloom  and  sensuality  advances  and  draws  back, 
very  quickly  and  very  lightly.  The  two  pupils  that 
roll,  black  as  an  onyx  on  a  groundwork  of  white 
enamel,  are  fixed  on  mine  unwaveringly,  in  these 
alternative  advances  of  sensual  appeal,  and  retreats 
into  the  shade,  that  are  ever  succeeded  by  a  new  and 
provocative  advance.  The  young,  bronze-coloured 
face  is  wreathed  in  precious  stones,  and  a  band  of 
gold  and  diamonds  surrounds  the  forehead  and  de- 
scends over  the  temples,  concealing  the  hair,  and  in 
the  ears  and  nose  many  diamonds  sparkle. 

It  is  night,  and  everything  is  lit  up,  but  in  all  this 
crowd  I  can  only  see  the  woman  with  the  hel  meted 
head  whose  shining  point  seems  to  exercise  a  fascina- 
tion over  me.  There  are  many  spectators  gathered 
around  watching  her  also,  scarcely  leaving  room  for 
her  evolutions,  only  a  sort  of  passage  by  which  she 
can  reach  me  and  then  draw  back  ;  but  they  have 
ceased  to  exist  for  me,  and  I  only  see  the  woman  and 
her  sparkling  head-dress  and  the  play  of  her  black  eyes 
and  eyebrows.  She  has  a  body  lithe  as  a  serpent, 


136  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

yet  firm  and  plump  ;  enchanting  arms  that  seem  in- 
stinct with  assurances  of  embrace,  and  which  twist  and 
writhe  like  snakes  loaded  and  encircled  up  to  the 
shoulders  by  diamonds  and  rubies.  But,  no !  the 
attraction  lies  in  those  eyes  whose  expression  is  ever 
changing,  sometimes  mocking,  sometimes  tender,  and 
which  look  into  mine  in  a  way  that  makes  me  tremble. 
The  jewels  of  her  head-dress  and  the  gems  in  her  ears 
and  nose  shine  so  brilliantly,  and  the  golden  band 
forms  such  a  brightly  denned  framing,  that  the  face 
underneath,  with  its  soft  features  and  its  dull  and 
dusky  skin,  seems  to  have  a  nameless  and  far-off 
indefiniteness,  even  when  it  is  quite  close  to  me.  The 
bayadere  goes  and  comes  ;  she  seems  to  dance  for  me 
alone.  Her  dance  is  noiseless,  and  only  the  tinkling 
of  the  precious  bracelets  on  her  ankles  is  heard,  for  a 
carpet  receives  the  cadenced  impress  of  the  little 
naked  feet,  whose  expanded  and  mobile  toes  are 
burdened  with  rings. 

All  this  takes  place  in  an  atmosphere  so  saturated 
with  essences  and  the  perfume  of  flowers  as  to  be 
almost  unbreatheable.  I  am  at  a  fete  given  by  the 
Indians  who  live  here,  the  French  Indians,  and  I  am 
in  the  house  of  the  most  wealthy  of  them.  On  my 
arrival  the  host  placed  a  many-rowed  collar  of  jas- 
mines of  intoxicating  odour  round  my  neck,  and 
sprinkled  me  also  with  rose-water  from  a  long-necked 
silver  flagon.  The  heat  is  suffocating.  The  guests 
are  mostly  seated — a  row  of  dusky  heads  whose  tur- 
bans are  embroidered  with  gold  thread.  Above  these 
heads  great  fans  of  painted  palm  are  waved  by  naked 
and  erect  attendants — their  nudity  looking  the  more 
strange  amongst  this  gaily  decked  crowd,  where  even 
the  men  wear  diamonds  in  their  ears  and  at  their 
waists. 

The  bayadere  has  been  told  that  the  fete  was  in  my 
honour,  so  that  it  is  to  me  that  this  comedienne, 
accomplished  both  by  nature  and  inheritance,  ad- 
dresses herself. 

She  has  come  from  afar  for  this  evening,  from  one 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  137 

of  the  temples  of  the  south,  where  she  is  in  the  service 
of  Siva  ;  her  reputation  is  great,  and  her  performances 
are  costly. 

She  sways  backwards  and  forwards,  waving  mean- 
while her  beautiful  nude  arms,  twisting  her  fingers 
into  strange  shapes,  and  her  toes,  which  have  been 
trained  since  her  infancy  to  that  purpose,  into  still 
stranger  contortions,  the  great  toe  being  always 
separated  and  maintained  erect  in  the  air. 

Between  the  gauze  of  gold  that  enwraps  her  loins 
and  the  corset  in  which  her  bust  is  held  a  close  prisoner 
one  sees  as  usual  a  little  of  her  pale  bronze  body,  a 
little  of  her  vigorous  and  sinewy  flesh ;  and  the  play 
of  the  lower  part  of  her  breasts  and  of  her  waist  is 
exposed  to  our  gaze. 

Her  dance  consists  of  a  series  of  expressive  poses,  a 
kind  of  acted  monologue,  with  those  oft -repeated 
advances  and  retreats,  approaching  towards  me 
through  the  lane  of  human  faces,  coming  quite  close 
with  her  eyes  riveted  on  mine  ;  then,  with  a  sudden 
flight,  disappearing  into  the  gloom  that  envelops 
the  lower  end  of  the  hall. 

She  depicts  a  scene  of  seduction  and  reproach.  Be- 
hind, at  the  back,  musicians  intone  the  melody  of 
this  scene  to  an  accompaniment  of  tambourines  and 
flutes.  She,  too,  sings  as  she  acts,  but  only  to  herself, 
and  in  a  little  voice  that  is  not  intended  to  be  heard. 
This,  however,  serves  to  aid  her  memory,  and  to  allow 
her  to  enter  more  fully  into  the  varied  dramatic  phases 
of  her  part. 

Now  she  approaches  from  the  end  of  the  hall  that  is 
shrouded  in  shadow,  a  creature  glittering  in  gold  and 
jewels  ;  she  darts  towards  me  with  an  indignant  air 
of  accusation,  and  menaces  me  with  expressive 
gestures  that  call  heaven  to  witness  the  magnitude  of 
the  crime  I  have  committed. 

Then  suddenly  the  bayadere  bursts  into  a  fit  of 
mocking  laughter  ;  she  overwhelms  me  with  bantering 
disdain  and  with  extended  finger,  points  me  out  to 
the  jeering  crowd.  Her  irony  is,  of  course,  factitious, 


138  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

just  as  were  the  superb  imprecations  with  which  she 
but  lately  encompassed  me.  But  it  is  a  marvellous 
imitation  all  the  same.  Her  titter  and  somewhat  sad 
laughter  can  be  heard  to  resound  in  her  heaving  chest, 
and  she  laughs  with  her  mouth,  her  eyes,  and  her  eye 
brows,  with  her  bosom,  and  with  her  heaving  and 
panting  breasts.  As  she  withdraws,  shaken  with 
laughter,  the  effect  is  irresistible,  and  one  must  laugh 
with  her. 

She  withdraws  backwards,  as  quickly  as  her  little 
feet  will  take  her,  turning  away  her  head  in  scorn,  so 
that  she  may  no  longer  see  me.  But  now  she  returns 
with  slow  and  solemn  step  ;  these  sarcasms  were  but 
spite  ;  her  love  is  too  strong,  she  returns  conquered 
by  the  sovereign  passion,  stretching  her  hands  out 
to  me,  imploring  pardon,  and  offering  her  all  in  a  final 
appeal.  And  as  she  again  withdraws,  with  her  head 
thrown  back  and  her  half -opened  lips  that  disclose  the 
pearly  teeth  glimmering  beneath  the  diamonds  in  her 
nose,  she  wishes  me  to  follow  her,  even  seems  to  con- 
mand  it,  she  calls  me  with  her  arms,  her  breasts,  and 
her  languorous  eyes  ;  she  calls  me  with  all  her  being, 
as  with  a  loadstone,  and  for  a  very  little  I  should 
follow  her  almost  involuntarily,  for  I  am  at  last  spell- 
bound by  her  fascinations.  Her  promises  of  love  are 
false,  and  like  her  laughter  but  part  of  the  comedy. 
One  knows  it,  and  indeed  it  is  no  worse  for  that ;  per- 
haps even  the  knowledge  of  its  unreality  only  adds  a 
new  and  malignant  charm. 

Whilst  she  acts,  a  sort  of  magnetic  or  invisible  bond 
unites  her  to  those  two  men  who  sing  in  the  orchestra, 
and  who,  like  her,  go  and  come  along  the  human 
passage  ;  sometimes  advancing,  then  taking  three  or 
four  steps  backward.  They  follow  her  when  she 
comes  near  me,  but  are  the  first  to  draw  back  when  it 
is  time  for  her  to  retire  ;  they  never  allow  her  to  escape 
from  out  of  their  sight,  and  their  burning  gaze  is  fixed 
on  her,  whilst  with  widely  opened  mouths  they  ever 
sing  in  the  high  falsetto  voice  of  a  muezzin.  With 
heads  bent  forward  they,  who  are  tall,  look  down  on 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  139 

her  who  is  short,  and  they  have  the  air  of  being  the 
masters  by  whom  she  is  inspired  and  possessed. 
They  seem  to  guide  her  with  their  voices,  and  to  fan 
her  with  the  flame  of  their  breath  like  some  delicate 
and  glittering  butterfly  that  they  have  tamed  to  their 
will,  and  there  is  an  unknown  something  in  this  that 
seems  perverse  and  uncanny. 

In  the  less  brightly  lit  place  where  the  orchestra  is 
seated  there  are  two  or  three  other  gaily-adorned 
bayaderes  who  had  already  danced.  One  had  struck 
me  as  being  especially  strange,  a  sort  of  beautiful, 
poisonous  flower  ;  tall  and  thin,  with  features  that 
seemed  too  delicate  and  eyes  that  were  too  long 
already,  without  their  unnatural  lengthening  of  paint ; 
blue-black  hair,  stretched  in  tight  bands  across  the 
cheeks  ;  drapery  that  was  wholly  black,  a  black 
girdle  and  a  black  veil  with  the  slightest  silver  edging. 
Her  ornaments  consisted  of  nothing  but  rubies,  rubies 
that  covered  hands  and  arms,  and  in  her  nose  a  bunch 
of  rubies  that  fell  over  her  mouth,  so  that  the  ghoulish 
lips  looked  as  if  a  spot  of  blood  had  yet  remained  on 
them. 

But  I  forgot  them  all  so  soon  as  I  saw  that  one, 
that  queen,  that  star,  make  her  sudden  appearance 
between  the  musicians  who  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass, 
that  creature  all  decked  in  gold  who  had  been  kept 
for  the  last. 

Her  dance  was  long,  very  long,  almost  wearisome, 
yet  I  dreaded  the  moment  when  it  would  end  and  I 
should  see  her  no  more. 

Once  more  she  repeated  her  reproaches  and  that 
irresistible  laugh  ;  once  more  I  felt  the  mockery  of 
her  sparkling  eyes  and  again  the  evermore  despairing 
calls  of  love. 

At  last  she  ceases  and  all  is  over,  and  I  wake  up 
and  see  the  people  gathered  around,  and  find  myself 
surrounded  once  more  by  the  realities  of  the  enter- 
tainment organized  in  my  honour. 

Before  retiring — and  it  is  time — I  go  to  compliment 
the  bayadere.  I  find  her  wiping  her  face  with  a 


140  IN  THE  LAND  OF 

delicate  handkerchief  ;  she  has  been  very  hot,  and 
the  perspiration  rolls  down  her  forehead  on  to  her 
smooth  and  dusky  bust.  In  a  manner  that  is  now 
correct,  cold,  and  indifferent,  the  tired  and  uncon- 
cerned comedienne  receives  my  compliments  with 
little  bows  of  mock  modesty,  little  bows  made  in  the 
Indian  style,  hiding  her  face  each  time  with  hands 
on  every  finger  of  which  she  wears  diamonds. 

What  thoughts  can  there  be  in  the  soul  of  a  baya- 
dere of  the  old  race  and  the  pure  blood  ?  the  daughter 
and  granddaughter  of  bayaderes,  one  who  has  been 
trained  through  descent,  that  has  lasted  for  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  years,  to  be  a  creature  of  naught  but 
phantasy  and  pleasure. 


XIII 
WRITTEN   ON  LEAVING  PONDICHERRY 

I  am  leaving  Pondicherry  to-morrow  for  the  States 
of  Rajputana,  where  the  famine  rages,  going  by  way 
of  Nizam.  I  have  hardly  spent  ten  days  in  our  old 
colony,  and  am  astonished  to  find  that  I  cannot  leave 
without  regret,  though  I  have  hitherto  borne  my 
Indian  partings  with  the  lightest  heart.  I  might  even 
say  that  this  land  of  Pondicherry  has  resumed  a  sway 
over  me.  I  might  say  that  I  have  found  my  old  re- 
collections once  more.  At  the  moment  of  my  de- 
parture I  feel  the  same  feeling  stirring  within  me  that 
I  experienced  in  the  bygone  days  of  my  youth  when 
the  time  came  for  me  to  quit  that  other  decayed  old 
town,  Saint  Louis  of  Senegal,  where  I  had  spent  a  whole 
year. 

I  had  lodged  at  the  hotel,  just  as  any  ordinary 
traveller  might  do,  for  there  are  two  hotels  at  Pondi- 
cherry that  exist  modestly  without  any  visitors.  I 
had  chosen  the  one  by  the  side  of  the  sea,  a  house  of 
somewhat  stately  aspect  that  dated  from  the  founda- 
tion of  the  town,  and  whose  dilapidations  were  con- 
cealed under  a  coating  of  whitewash.  In  view  of  the 


THE  GREAT  PALMS  141 

air  of  abandonment  and  neglect  that  prevailed,  I 
entered  with  some  trepidation,  and  who  would  have 
thought  that  I  should  become  attached  to  the  chance 
lodging  ? 

The  great  and  almost  bare  whitewashed  room  which 
I  occupied  showed  plainly  the  havoc  wrought  by  time, 
and  recalled  in  a  strange  and  familiar  manner  that 
other  room  which  I  lived  in  long  ago  on  the  coast  of 
Africa.  Green-shuttered  windows  overlooked  the  vast 
plain  of  the  Indian  Ocean,  whose  breezes  brought  a 
delicious  freshness  even  during  the  hottest  hours  of 
the  day.  As  in  the  Creole  salons,  there  were  ancient 
chairs  of  carved  wood,  and  on  a  Louis  XVI  console  a 
clock  of  the  same  period,  whose  persistent  ticking 
told  of  life  and  of  a  soul  that  was  old  and  worn.  All 
was  dried  up,  worm-eaten  and  fragile,  and  I  did  not 
dare  to  sit  down  too  quickly  nor  to  jump  into  bed 
hastily.  But  there  was  always  the  same  fair  weather, 
blue  sky,  pure  air,  and  delicious  and  home-like  peace. 

Leaning  from  the  windows  I  could  see,  besides  the 
shore  and  the  sea,  the  terraces  of  some  old  houses 
that  stood  close  by.  These  also  called  back  recollec- 
tions of  Africa,  for  the  roofs  were  Moorish  in  style, 
and  the  burning  sun  had  riven  them  with  many  cracks. 
From  morning  till  night  I  am  cradled  by  the  sleepy 
song  of  a  troop  of  naked  Indians  who  work  dreamily 
in  the  neighbouring  courtyard,  and  who  are  occupied 
in  filling  mat  sacks  with  grain  and  spices  for  the  ships. 

My  room  was  never  closed,  neither  during  the  day 
nor  the  night,  and  the  beasts  of  the  air  made  their 
home  with  me  ;  sparrows  walked  on  the  mats  that 
covered  the  floor  without  ever  heeding  my  presence, 
and  little  squirrels,  after  an  inquiring  gaze,  came  in 
too  and  ran  over  the  furniture  ;  and  one  morning  I 
saw  two  crows  perched  on  the  corner  of  my  mosquito 
net. 

Oh  !  how  sad  and  still  were  these  midday  hours, 
when  the  tropical  sun  poured  down  on  the  silent  little 
streets  lying  round  the  house,  streets  with  the  strange 
old-fashioned  names.  Nothing  in  my  room  or  my 


142     IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  GREAT  PALMS 

surroundings  served  to  remind  me  of  modern  times  ; 
there  was  nothing  on  those  lonely  terraces  or  on  the 
wide  blue  plain  of  the  deserted  sea  by  which  I  could 
fix  the  period,  though  the  deliberation  of  the  men 
occupied  in  filling  their  sacks  with  corn  made  me 
think  of  some  colonial  scene  of  olden  times.  Then 
forgetting  our  hurryings,  our  eagerness,  and  our  rapid 
steamers,  I  fancied  myself  back  in  the  old  days  when 
one  came  here  by  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  on  some 
shapely  and  wilful  sailing-vessel  which  travelled  with 
a  deliberation  that  made  the  distance  seem  ten  times 
as  great. 

My  regrets,  as  may  be  imagined,  cannot  be  very 
deep  ;  all  will  be  forgotten  to-morrow,  driven  away  by 
the  fleeting  images  of  new  and  fresh  scenes.  But 
nothing  that  I  have  already  seen  in  this  old  India,  or 
that  I  may  yet  see,  will  take  such  a  hold  on  me  as 
this  little  corner  of  old  France  stranded  on  the  shores 
of  the  Gulf  of  Bengal. 


\ 


IN    FAMISHED    INDIA 


CHAPTER   V 
IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

i 

TOWARDS  HYDERABAD 

IT  is  no  longer  green,  there  are  no  more  great  palms  ; 
the  earth  is  no  longer  red,  and  it  is  quite  chilly.  .  .  . 
These  are  the  surprises  that  attend  my  first  awakening 
in  Nizam  after  having  journeyed  all  the  night  from  the 
regions  of  Madras  and  Pondicherry,  where  yesterday 
everything  was  still  so  green.  We  have  now  reached 
the  central  plateau  of  India,  and  are  in  the  midst  of 
a  stony  wilderness  where  all  is  different — save  the 
croaking  of  the  eternal  crows. 

Parched  lands  and  grayish  plains  alternate  with  j 
millet  fields  that  are  vast  as  little  seas.     In  place  of  • 
superb  coco-nut  palms  a  few  sparse  aloes  and  some 
miserable    date   trees,    almost    withered    up    by   the 
drought,  cluster  round  villages  that  have  also  changed 
their  aspect,  and  that  now  resemble  those  of  Arabia. 
Islam  has  placed  its  mark  on  all  these  things — Islam 
that  seems  to  love  gloomy  regions  and  gleaming  deserts. 

The  costumes  have  changed  too.  Men  no  longer  go 
about  with  naked  chests,  but  are  swathed  in  white, 
and  they  do  not  wear  long  hair,  but  wrap  their  heads 
in  turbans. 

The  dryness  increases  hourly  as  we  penetrate  farther 
among  the  weary  sameness  of  the  plains.  Rice  patches, 
whose  furrows  can  still  be  seen,  have  been  destroyed 
as  if  by  fire.  The  millet  fields,  which  hold  out  longer, 
are  for  the  most  part  yellow  and  hopelessly  damaged. 

In  those  which  are  still  alive  watchers,  perched  on 
platforms  made  of  branches,  are  to  be  seen  everywhere 
trying  to  scare  away  the  rats  and  birds  that  would  eat 
10  MS 


146  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

everything  ;  poor  humanity  in  the  clutches  of  famine, 
trying  to  guard  a  few  ears  of  corn  from  the  ravages  of 
famished  animals. 

The  night  chills  have  vanished,  and  the  sun  piti- 
lessly pours  a  furnace-like  heat  on  the  earth,  whilst 
the  sky  extends  above  our  heads,  limpid  and  blue  as 
a  great  sapphire. 

The  scenery  towards  the  end  of  the  day  becomes 
strange  and  wonderful.  Scattered  amidst  fields  of 
burnt-up  millet  and  parched  jungles  there  are  heaps 
of  monstrous  brown  stones,  great  blocks  with  polished 
sides  and  fantastic  outlines  that  have  wandered  here 
somehow.  They  seem  to  have  been  purposely  piled 
up  into  strange  and  unstable  postures  ;  some  are 
upright,  and  some  lean  so  strangely  that  these  group- 
ings, which  are  often  of  great  height,  have  always  the 
most  absurdly  improbable  appearance. 

The  sun  is  setting,  and  Hyderabad  is  at  last  visible, 
very  white  amidst  clouds  of  white  dust,  and  very 
Mohammedan  with  its  terraced  roofs  and  slender 
minarets.  The  trees,  fast  dying  of  drought,  are  shed- 
ding their  leaves  and  give  the  false  impression  of  the 
decline  of  the  year.  The  river  that  flows  in  a  large 
bed  at  the  foot  of  the  town  is  almost  dried  up,  and  the 
water  is  so  low  as  to  be  nearly  imperceptible.  Troups  of 
elephants  of  the  same  grayish  colour  as  the  mud  banks 
are  slowly  wandering  along,  trying  to  bathe  and  drink. 

The  day  declines  and  the  Eastern  sky  is  lighted  by 
a  burning  glow ;  the  whiteness  of  the  town  fades 
slowly  into  an  ashy  blue,  and  huge  bats  commence 
to  flit  silently  through  the  cloudless  sky. 

ii 

HYDERABAD   AWAITS   THE   NIZAM 

The  inhabitants  of  this  country,  however,  have  not 
felt  the  tortures  of  famine  that  tread  at  the  heels  of 
their  neighbours  of  Rajput,  and  the  glittering  splendour 
of  their  capital  is  at  its  brightest  now  that  they  await 
the  return  of  their  king,  of  the  Nizam  as  he  is  called  here. 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  147 

"  Long  Live  the  Nizam,  Our  Prince,"  is  seen  in  great 
gold  letters  on  all  the  floating  banners  and  at  the 
top  of  the  many  triumphal  arches,  decked  with  silk 
and  muslin,  that  cross  the  roads  and  streets. 

Hyderabad,  the  white  city  that  overhangs  the 
almost  dried-up  river,  in  whose  fresh  mud  the  hordes 
of  elephants  are  wandering,  Hyderabad,  beflagged  and 
gay,  has  been  waiting  day  by  day  for  a  week  for  the 
king  who  does  not  come. 

"  Welcome  to  the  Nizam,  Our  Ruler,"  is  the  in- 
scription written  above  the  archway  thrown  over  the 
great  stone  bridge  leading  to  the  town,  an  archway  gaily 
decked  with  red  crape  and  covered  with  gold  spangles. 

There  is  a  constant  stream  of  passengers  dressed  in 
many  colours,  of  horses,  waggons,  and  attendants, 
passing  over  the  bridge.  I  am  surprised  after  journey- 
ing through  such  a  succession  of  sad  plains  to  find 
hidden  amongst  these  gray  and  stony  steppes  a  city  so 
teeming  with  life  and  colour. 

The  streets  extend  before  us,  white,  broad,  and 
straight,  thronged  by  a  crowd  that  glitters  with  all 
the  colours  of  a  flower-bed.  First  of  all  we  are  as- 
tonished by  the  luxury  and  the  infinite  variety  of  the 
turbans.  There  are  rose,  salmon,  and  cherry-coloured 
ones,  and  some  with  the  tints  of  peach  blossom ;  here  ^ 
lilac,  amaranth,  yellow,  or  golden  ones  are  seen. 
All  are  worn  large,  immoderately  large,  wrapped 
round  the  little  pointed  caps  with  their  free  ends 
hanging  loosely  behind  on  the  wearer's  robes. 

The  streets  extend  white,  broad,  and  straight, 
crossed  here  and  there  by  triumphal  arches,  which 
are  taller  than  the  houses,  and  from  which  spring 
minarets  crowned  with  golden  crescents.  In  addition 
to  these  stone  arches  several  others,  made  of  silk 
stretched  over  bamboo  frames,  have  been  raised  in 
honour  of  the  prince  who  does  not  come.  In  the 
middle  of  the  town  there  is  an  archway  of  enormous 
proportions,  a  four-sided  arch  with  four  minarets  which  ' 
tower  above  all  the  others  near,  tower,  too,  above  the 
tapering  spires  of  the  mosques  and  dart  into  the  air, 


148  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

far  above  the  dust  of  Hyderabad,  into  the  purity  of 
the  unchanging  sky. 

The  Arabian  ogive,  as  it  is  seen  here,  has  been 
much  complicated  by  festoons  and  indentations,  the 
Indians  having  even  enriched  the  fanciful  beauty  of 
the  original  models.  On  the  ground  floors  of  all  the 
houses  rows  of  arches  succeed  one  another  in  infinite 
variety,  either  very  pointed  or  very  obtuse,  the  rose- 
pattern  predominating,  although  the  many-leaved 
trefoil  is  often  seen.  Along  the  whole  length  of  the 
street  merchants  are  seated  on  cushions  and  carpets, 
under  the  shelter  of  the  porches,  the  arches  of  which 
have  been  elaborated  with  such  studied  refinement. 
The  back  of  their  shops  is  in  open-work  masonry  like 
the  front,  and  the  blue,  green,  and  gold  with  which  it 
is  painted  make  it  resemble  the  outspread  tail  of  some 
huge  bird  of  the  peacock  tribe.  Here  is  the  jewellers' 
quarter,  where  collars,  bracelets,  and  glass  trinkets 
glitter  in  every  shop,  side  by  side  with  precious  gems, 
and  tinsel  glitters  next  to  virgin  gold.  Here  is  the 
quarter  of  the  perfumers,  where  the  essences  of  all  the 
flowers  are  stored  in  ancient  Chinese  vases,  brought 
here  long  ago  by  caravans.  There  is  also  the  sparkling 
street  where  slippers  are  sold,  all  gilt  and  bespangled, 
with  the  tips  bent  backwards  like  the  prow  of  a 
gondola.  Intermingled  everywhere,  as  if  by  chance, 
are  the  stalls  of  the  flower-sellers,  where  masses  of 
roses,  broken  from  their  stems,  are  piled  up  into  tiny 
mountains.  There  are  piles  of  jasmine  flowers,  too, 
that  children  thread  as  they  would  thread  beads.  We 
pass  by  sellers  of  arms,  lances,  and  the  great  two- 
handed  swords  of  olden  days,  knives  for  tiger-hunting, 
these  of  a  special  shape  and  destined  to  be  flung  into 
the  tiger's  gaping  jaws  as  it  leaps  upon  its  victim. 
Marriage  robes  for  men,  gilt  all  over,  are  on  sale,  and 
marriage  turbans  glittering  with  spangles.  Here  is 
a  quarter  where  the  space  between  the  houses  and  the 
middle  of  the  street  is  occupied  by  people  engaged  in 
printing  light  muslins,  some  of  which  seem  transparent 
as  the  mist.  Little  designs  in  silver  and  gold  are  strewn 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  149 

over  green,  rose,  or  yellow  grounds.  The  fabric  may 
not  be  lasting,  for  the  first  drop  of  rain  would  spoil  all, 
but  the  colouring  is  always  admirable,  and  the  smallest 
piece  that  issues  from  the  hands  of  these  artists  of 
the  street  looks  like  the  magic  veil  of  some  peri. 
Gold,  gold,  there  must  be  gold  everywhere,  or,  failing 
that,  tinsel  or  gilt  paper,  or  anything  that  will  glitter 
in  the  gorgeous  sunlight  and  fascinate  the  eye. 

The  dust  is  white,  the  houses  white,  and  the  garments 
'  of  the  people  white  ;  a  snowy  whiteness  is  the  prevail- 
ing note  of  the  streets  and  their  moving  multitudes, 
and  it  is  from  the  whiteness  of  the  robesthatthe  glowing 
colours  of  the  muslin  turbans  stand  out  in  such  relief. 

"  Honour  to  the  Nizam  !  "  The  amount  of  silks, 
muslins,  and  velvets  hung  out  in  honour  of  the  long- 
absent  prince  is  quite  incredible.  Hyderabad  glories 
in  the  expectation  of  its  king,  and  for  the  last  eight 
days  everything  has  been  ready,  even  the  flowers  that 
the  sun  has  now  withered.  But  the  Nizam  is  at 
Calcutta,  driving  through  the  streets  with  Asiatic 
pomp,  followed  by  a  dozen  gilded  carriages.  He 
neither  returns  nor  sends  any  news,  but  drifts  at  the 
mercy  of  his  inclinations.  The  Indians,  who  would 
do  exactly  the  same  in  his  place,  are  not  at  all  sur- 
prised at  his  proceedings,  and  merely  continue  to 
expect  him.  Alas  !  however,  there  is  no  danger  that 
the  rain  will  come  to  spoil  the  light  draperies,  to  wash 
away  the  gildings  of  the  triumphal  arches,  for  there  is 
never  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

Each  day,  as  the  hours  advance,  there  is  an  in- 
creasing bustle,  and  from  an  ever-thickening  cloud  of 
dust  a  volume  of  sound  arises,  the  cries  of  the  streets, 
the  braying  of  the  bands,  that  swells  and  swells,  until 
nightfall  comes  and  silence  returns. 

There  is  a  constant  stream  of  horse-drawn  carriages 
and  of  carts  to  which  trotting  zebus  are  yoked.  These 
are  skiff-shaped  coaches  of  basket-work  in  which 
mysterious  ladies  sit,  enveloped  in  hanging  curtains 
pierced  with  holes,  through  which  these  painted 
beauties  can  gaze  upon  the  crowd.  There  are  splendid 


150  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

horsemen,  with  pointed  caps  and  streaming  turbans, 
riding  with  couched  lances.  Long  strings  of  drome- 
daries belonging  to  some  caravan,  elephants  of  burden 
returning  from  their  work,  all  covered  with  dust  or 
mud,  elephants  of  state  marching  to  the  sound  of 
bagpipes  in  wedding  processions,  with  little  towers 
on  their  backs  in  which  the  bridal  pair  are  concealed 
behind  curtains  drawn  close. 

The  monotonous  chaunt  of  the  palanquin  bearers  is 
heard,  as,  running  with  nimble  steps,  they  carry  on 
piles  of  embroidered  cushions  some  important  and  be- 
spectacled old  gentleman,  or  some  grave  priest  lost  in 
prayers.     Beggars  in  rags,  covered  with  shells,  drag 
themselves  along,  and  there  are  mad  folk  of  disquiet- 
ing aspect,  who  are  sacred,  and  whose  eyes  have  the 
far-off    look    of    those    who    discern    other    worlds. 
Long-haired  old  dervishes,  all  bedabbled  with  ashes, 
hurry  along  ringing  bells,  seeing  nothing  as  they  forge 
ahead,  while  people  respectfully  stand  aside  to  let 
them  pass.     We  meet  bands  of  Yemen  Arabs,  whose 
presence  the  Nizam  is  pleased  to  encourage.     Now 
the  chief  of  some  far-off  province  advances,  a  man  of 
savage  and  magnificent  mien,  who  dashes  along  at  a 
breakneck  pace,  followed  by  horsemen  bearing  lances. 
The  air  is  filled  with  the  scent  of  burning  perfumes, 
scented,  too,  by  the  red  roses  which  are  heaped  up  be- 
fore the  sellers  of  wreaths,  scented  by  the  white  jasmine 
flowers  that  overflow  their  baskets  and  fall  like  snow 
into  the  dusty  street.     Who  would  think  that  famine 
is  approaching  from  the  west,  or  that  it  had  already 
made  its  voracious  presence  felt  on  this  side  of  the 
frontier  ?     And  with  what  water  and  in  what  sheltered 
gardens  have  all  these  flowers  been  brought  to  bloom  ? 
Towards  sundown  the  characters  of  the  Thousand 
and  One  Nights  begin  to  appear,  dandies  whose  eyes 
are  painted  with  blue  and  whose  beards  are  tinged 
vermilion  ;   they  wear  robes  of  brocade,  or  of  velvet 
trimmed  with  lavish  gold,  many  necklaces  of  pearls  or 
of  precious  stones,  and  carry  tamed  birds  of  prey  upon 
their  right  hands. 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  151 

"  Welcome  to  His  Highness  the  Nizam  "  is  seen 
once  more  :  this  time  over  an  archway  hung  with 
orange-yellow  crape,  decked  with  citron-  and  sulphur- 
coloured  streamers  of  the  same  material,  and  spangles 
of  gold.  This  archway  is  outlined  against  a  large  and 
snowy  mosque,  adorned  with  crescents  and  with 
points  of  gold,  and  as  it  is  the  hour  of  evening  prayer 
the  mosque  engulfs  the  white-robed  crowd  of  wor- 
shippers, whose  heads  are  wrapped  in  muslin,  and  who 
from  afar  look  like  great  flowers  of  many  hues  that 
have  been  scattered  over  the  ground. 

However,  the  news  circulates  that  the  Nizam  is  not 
yet  returning  ;  certainly  that  he  will  not  be  back  till 
after  the  moon  of  Ramadan.  At  the  next  moon  per- 
haps he  may  return  ...  or  it  may  be  later.  Allah 
alone  can  say. 

in 

GOLCONDA 

AT  the  corner  of  one  of  the  outlying  streets  of  Hyder- 
abad, this  inscription  can  be  read  upon  an  old  wall — 
"  Road  to  Golconda."  It  would  have  been  equally 
true  to  have  written  up  "  Road  to  Silence  and  Ruin." 

Passing  along  the  deserted  road,  from  which  our 
horses'  feet  raise  clouds  of  dust,  we  first  see  a  number 
of  abandoned  little  mosques,  and  many  crumbling 
little  minarets  of  rare  elegance  and  exquisitely  beauti- 
ful design.  Then  nothing  more.  We  plunge  into  the 
parched  and  ashy-coloured  steppes  and  see  heaps  of 
granitic  blocks  of  such  strange  shapes  that  it  seems  as 
if  they  could  not  belong  to  our  terrestrial  sphere. 

After  driving  for  an  hour  we  arrive  on  the  banks  of 
a  lake,  whose  waters  are  so  low  that  its  muddy  bed  is 
exposed  to  view.  Behind  the  lake  the  whole  horizon 
is  walled  out  by  a  phantom  town  of  the  same  ashy- 
gray  colour  as  the  surrounding  plain.  This  is  Gol- 
conda, the  city  which  for  three  centuries  was  one  of 
the  marvels  of  India. 

It  is  well  known  that  all  cities,  palaces,  and  monu- 
ments that  man  has  erected  look  larger  when  they  are 


152  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

in  ruins  ;  but  really  these  ruins  are  too  overwhelming. 
First  there  is  a  crested  rampart,  at  least  thirty  feet 
high,  furnished  with  bastions,  parapets,  and  stone 
watch-towers,  which  appears  to  extend  for  miles  into 
the  desert  country  ;  then  above  this  already  formid- 
able inclosure  there  is  a  cyclopean  fortress  tower.  It 
is  made  out  of  a  mountain,  one  of  those  strange 
mountains,  one  of  those  agglomerations  of  granite 
blocks  that  give  the  country  its  appearance  of  fantastic 
unreality.  The  desire  for  what  is  gigantic  and  super- 
human which  possessed  the  kings  and  peoples  of  the 
olden  days  must  surely  have  found  here  everything 
to  its  heart's  wish.  Amongst  the  monstrous  blocks 
walls  have  been  built,  inclosed  within  each  other  and 
poised  one  above  another,  whilst  their  crested  ramparts 
intermingle  bewilderingly.  Close  to  the  edge  of  the 
boldest  rocks  bastions  have  been  thrown  out  that 
overhang  terrible  precipices  ;  mosques  have  been 
poised  at  various  heights,  arid  there  are  complicated 
arches  and  prodigious  buttresses.  The  topmost  stone 
of  all,  from  superstition  or  the  whim  of  design,  has 
been  left  in  its  natural  state,  looking  like  some  great 
round-backed  beast  crouching  on  the  highest  summit. 

At  the  gates  of  the  dead  city,  near  piles  of  cannon 
balls  of  stone  or  metal,  and  of  implements  from  many 
an  ancient  siege  and  battle,  there  are  modern  repeating 
rifles  stacked  in  sheaves.  The  soldiers  of  the  Nizam 
and  many  sentries  are  on  guard,  and  we  have  to  show 
a  special  permit.  Access  to  these  ruins  is  not  granted 
to  any  comer,  for  they  still  constitute  an  impregnable 
fortress,  and  it  is  reported  that  the  sovereign  conceals 
his  treasures  here. 

Terrible  gates,  those  of  Golconda,  which  will  only 
swing  round  under  the  combined  efforts  of  many  men. 
The  double  leaves  of  the  doors,  now  lying  back  in  the 
recesses  hollowed  out  in  the  thickness  of  the  ramparts, 
are  armed  with  long  and  pointed,  dart -like,  iron  spikes, 
a  formidable  armature  which  serves  to  ward  off  the 
elephants,  who  used  to  delight  in  destroying  the  huge 
beams  with  their  trunks  as  they  filed  past  into  the  city. 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  153 

As  we  enter,  my  little  convoy  suddenly  assumes  the 
appearance  of  European  shabbiness  in  spite  of  my 
two  drivers  with  their  gilded  turbans  and  the  runners 
who  wave  large  fly-fans  round  the  horses'  flanks. 

The  first  street  that  we  come  upon  after  passing 
through  the  thick  walls  is  the  only  one  that  is  at  all  in- 
habited. A  few  poor  wretches  live  here  in  ruined  palaces, 
and  keep  modest  booths  for  the  benefit  of  the  soldiers. 

The  rest  of  the  immense  inclosure  is  occupied  only 
by  silence  and  a  feeling  of  emptiness.  Golconda  is  but 
an  ashy  plain,  bestrewn  with  fallen  stones  and  ruins 
of  all  sorts,  from  amongst  which  the  rounded  and 
polished  backs  of  primitive  blocks,  that  look  like 
slumbering  beasts,  are  seen  to  rise.  The  entire 
country  is  covered  with  such  blocks  of  stone,  which 
sometimes  rise  to  the  height  of  mountains,  which  dwarf 
and  outlive  the  puny  constructions  of  man. 

The  Indian  story  about  these  stones  of  Nizam  is 
that  after  God  had  finished  the  creation  of  the  world 
He  found  Himself  in  possession  of  a  quantity  of  super- 
fluous material,  which  He  then  rolled  up  in  His  fingers 
and  cast  haphazard  down  upon  the  earth. 

The  doors  of  the  citadel,  fiercely  sheeted  with  iron 
spikes,  like  the  gates  in  the  city  walls,  give  access  to 
confused  masses  of  granite,  from  which  one  ascends 
to  the  open  air  by  roadways  or  by  dismal  staircases 
that  lead  through  fortifications  and  passages  cut  out 
of  the  naked  rock.  The  whole  building  is  of  a  vast- 
ness  which  fills  us  with  stupefaction,  even  in  this  land 
of  India  where  colossal  things  are  passed  unnoticed. 
The  crested  walls,  intermingling  with  the  rocks,  form, 
even  to  the  very  summit,  a  series  of  impregnable 
positions.  There  are  cisterns,  consisting  of  deep  caves 
hollowed  out  from  the  bare  rock,  in  which  water  can 
be  kept  during  times  of  siege.  There  are  dark 
holes  leading  to  subterranean  passages,  which  descend 
to  the  very  heart  of  this  fortified  mountain  and  through 
which  the  open  country  may  be  reached  in  cases  of 
supreme  danger  or  of  despairing  flight. 

Mosques  are  built  at  various  heights,  so  that  when 


154  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

danger  is  nigh  prayers  may  be  said  to  the  very  last. 
All  has  been  foreseen  and  prepared,  as  if  for  indefinite 
resistance  against  a  race  of  giants,  and  it  is  not  possible 
to  understand  how,  some  three  centuries  before  our 
modern  guns  were  invented,  the  sultans  of  Golconda 
could  ever  have  been  driven  from  such  a  stronghold. 

As  we  ascend,  an  ever-widening  circle  of  desolation 
— bathed  in  a  glare  of  sunlight — lies  before  us.  The 
masonry  becomes  more  bold  and  terrifying,  but  ever 
more  ruined  ;  towers  and  walls  bend  and  lean,  so  that 
our  heads  reel ;  great  masses  seem  ready  to  fall,  and 
we  see  arches  riven  by  gigantic  cracks.  There  are 
also  the  remains  of  monuments  which  we  cannot 
comprehend,  of  which  neither  the  use  nor  the  age  is 
known  ;  and  in  the  caverns  there  are  gods  who  ruled 
before  Islam,  monkey-headed  images  of  Hanouman, 
that  live  among  the  bats,  before  whom  tiny  flames 
flicker  and  smoke,  doubtless  lighted  here  from  time 
to  time  by  some  mysterious  worshippers. 

On  the  last  terrace,  at  the  topmost  height  of  all, 
there  is  a  mosque  and  kiosk  from  which  the  sultans  in 
the  olden  days  used  to  overlook  the  land  and  watch 
for  armies  approaching  from  the  remotest  distances. 
The  view  from  here,  the  gardens  and  the  shady  nooks, 
was  celebrated  in  bygone  days,  but  now  life  has 
departed  from  these  plains. 

The  climate  has  changed  and  rain  is  wanting,  and 
it  would  even  seem  as  if  India  becomes  more  parched 
as  the  forces  of  its  people  wither  and  decay.  Beyond 
the  chaos  of  the  walls  and  ramparts  of  the  citadel, 
which  extends  far  down  the  silent  plain,  the  outer 
crested  wall  of  the  city,  still  kept  in  repair  by  the 
Nizam,  wanders  away  into  the  far  distance,  serving 
to  mark  out  the  limits  of  the  city  which  was  once 
Golconda,  Golconda  of  the  wondrous  diamonds.  But, 
one  asks,  what  good  purpose  can  such  a  wall  serve  by 
merely  inclosing  a  patch  of  desolation  which  has  grown 
to  resemble  the  immense  desolation  by  which  it  is 
surrounded  ?  Here  is  the  same  gray  plain  with  the 
strange  smooth  stones  that  look  like  herds  of  monsters 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  155 

crouching  amongst  the  ashes.  Farther  off,  Hydera- 
bad is  just  visible  as  a  white  streak,  and  scattered  here 
and  there  at  the  edges  of  the  plain  those  everlasting 
blocks  of  stone,  which,  heaped  into  rugged  mountains 
and  the  semblance  of  fantastic  fortresses,  give  the 
impression  of  an  infinite  and  mournful  succession  of 
cities  that  have  perished.  At  a  little  distance  from 
the  walls  of  the  dead  city  there  are  some  carefully 
whitened  domes  which  do  not  appear  to  be  in  ruins. 
They  rise  out  of  inclosed  gardens  whose  verdure  still 
looks  astonishingly  fresh  and  green  amidst  the  parched 
surroundings.  They  are  the  tombs  of  the  ancient  kings 
of  Golconda,  that,  thanks  to  the  respect  of  the  Indians 
for  their  dead,  have  been  spared  from  destruction.  Nay, 
more,  the  great  mortuary  gardens  surrounding  them 
have  even  been  replanted  during  the  last  few  years. 

Many  sultans  and  sultanas  of  the  fairy  kingdom 
slumber  under  the  beautiful  and  stately  cupolas .  Only 
one  is  wanting  to  this  silent  company,  that  last  one 
who,  after  having  built  the  dwelling-house  that  was  to 
last  him  for  eternity,  was  driven  from  home  and 
sepulture  by  the  conquering  Aurangzeb,  driven  forth 
to  exile  and  to  death. 

Their  resting-peace  is  exquisite.  Near  by  stand 
rows  of  cypress  trees  which  resemble  ours,  though  the 
heats  of  India  have  caused  them  to  spindle.  Never- 
theless, such  trees  are  the  favourites,  chosen  of  the 
dead  in  Eastern  cemeteries  as  they  are  in  our  own. 
The  sandy  walks,  too,  with  their  rows  of  rose  bushes, 
ruddy  with  bloom,  are  as  straight  as  those  of  our  old 
French  gardens.  Numbers  of  women  and  young  girls, 
whose  duty  is  to  tend  the  artificial  luxuriance  of  this 
oasis,  are  occupied  from  morning  to  night  in  pouring 
the  water  from  the  earthen  jars  which  they  carry  over 
the  flower  beds,  the  precious  water  that  has  been 
drawn  by  men  with  much  toil  from  wells  that  are  as 
vast  as  huge  abysses. 

Seen  from  a  distance,  the  coating  of  whitewash 
conveys  a  false  impression  of  preservation  to  these 
domes,  but  all  traces  of  painting  and  ornamentation 


156  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

have  vanished  from  the  interiors  of  these  vast 
mausoleums,  and  the  luxury  of  former  days  has  been 
swallowed  up  in  grayish  mould. 

However,  there  are  garlands  of  flowers  on  each  of 
the  little  marble  tombs  standing  under  the  hollow 
cupolas — reverential  and  charming  reminders  of  a 
dynasty  which  passed  away  three  hundred  years  ago. 

The  strange  and  homelike  charm  of  these  gardens, 
standing  in  parched  wildernesses  which  are  only  kept 
green  by  constant  waterings,  is  that  tall  and  delicate 
cypress  trees  are  found  side  by  side  with  palms,  and 
that  humming  birds  fly  boldly  over  vases  of  roses  just 
as  our  butterflies  do  at  home. 

IV 
THE    DREADFUL    CAVES 

The  grottos  are  consecrated  to  all  the  divinities  of 
the  Pourana,  but  the  greatest  of  them  all  are  sacred  to 
Siva,  the  god  of  Death. 

Men,  possessed  by  an  inspiration  which  was  both 
terrible  and  colossal,  laboured  for  centuries  in  the 
hollowing  out  of  these  granite  mountains.  Some  of 
the  caves  are  the  work  of  the  Buddhists,  others  of  the 
Brahmins,  and  there  are  some  dating  from  the  times 
of  the  Jai'na  kings.  Civilizations  and  religions  passed 
away  without  ever  interrupting  that  tremendous  work 
of  excavation  and  sculpture. 

Towards  the  thousandth  year  of  our  era,  according 
to  the  account  of  the  Arabian  Macoudi,  the  earliest 
author  who  mentions  these  grottos,  they  were  then  in 
the  fullnessof  their  glory,  and  countless  pilgrims  from  all 
parts  of  India  came  to  them  in  a  never-ending  stream. 

Now  they  are  forsaken  and  long  periods  of  drought 
have  laid  waste  the  austere  regions  which  surround 
them,  but  their  ageless  existence  is  continued  in- 
definitely in  the  midst  of  the  silence  and  abandonment 
of  a  country  whose  life  is  fast  ebbing  away. 

The  modern  road  leads  across  a  ruddy-coloured 
little  desert,  out  of  which  strangely  regular  little  hills, 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  157 

that  resemble  great  citadels  or  donjon  towers,  emerge  at 
intervals,  breaking  the  monotony  of  a  plain  which,  but 
for  them,  is  smooth  and  flat  like  the  shore  of  the  sea. 

It  was  in  an  Indian  cart  that  I  traversed  the  waste 
on  which  the  sun  was  beating  down,  following  a  road 
that  was  outlined  by  dead  trees. 

Towards  evening  a  phantom  town,  that  resembled 
the  Tower  of  Babel  as  it  is  represented  in  old  pictures, 
drifted  past  us.  This  was  the  once  celebrated  town  of 
Dalantabad,  where  the  last  of  the  Sultans  of  Golconda 
died  in  exile  three  hundred  years  ago.  A  city  that  is 
a  mountain,  a  fortress,  and  a  temple  ;  a  rock  which 
the  men  of  olden  days  have  trimmed  and  walled  and 
smoothed  from  its  summit  to  its  base,  so  that  it  is 
more  astonishing  than  the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  stand- 
ing in  their  deserts  of  sand.  Hundreds  of  crumbling 
tombs  are  scattered  around,  and  the  great  rock  is 
encompassed  by  countless  crested  ramparts,  bristling 
with  lances,  each  inclosed  within  its  fellow.  We 
entered  through  formidable  double  doors  which,  like 
those  of  Golconda,  still  retain  their  iron  sheathings. 

Within  there  is  no  one  ;  only  silence,  ruins,  and 
withered  trees  whose  rootlets  hang  trailing  from  their 
leafless  branches  like  tresses  of  long  hair.  We  left 
the  fortresses,  passing  through  double  doors  which  were 
just  as  fiercely  armed  and  just  as  useless  as  the  others. 

Towards  the  east  a  rocky  barrier  extended  across 
the  horizon,  and  as  the  road  wound  up  in  zigzag 
fashion,  I  had  to  descend  and  walk  behind  the  slowly 
trailing  cart.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  setting  sun, 
the  hour  when  the  gorgeous  and  unchanging  glow 
covers  the  land  that  knows  no  clouds.  Dalantabad, 
that  crested  mountain  of  ramparts  and  temples, 
seemed  to  rise  with  us  into  the  air,  outlined  against 
the  sky  in  a  halo  of  glory,  whilst  ever  extended  round 
us  the  still  immensity  of  red  and  burning  plains  from 
which  all  traces  of  life  had  vanished. 

On  the  summit  of  the  ridge  another  group  of  ruins, 
called  Rozas,  awaited  us  ;  a  Mussulman  town  crowded 
with  ruined  mosques  and  delicately  tapering  minarets. 


158  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

Here  many  cupolas  that  have  covered  graves  were 
clustered  near  the  ramparts,  which  now  loomed 
through  the  twilight.  Though  it  was  almost  dark  in 
the  streets,  several  turbaned  men  were  seated  on  the 
stones  strewn  by  the  roadside  :  a  few  last  stubborn 
inhabitants,  old  people  who  would  not  quit  these  walls 
because  of  the  sanctity  of  the  mosques. 

Then,  during  the  next  hour,  nothing  but  the  mono- 
tony of  the  rocks,  the  ever-widening  plain,  and  the 
deep  silence  of  the  night. 

Suddenly  there  is  something  so  surprising  and  so 
impossible  that  a  feeling  almost  like  fear  steals  over  us 
during  the  moment  that  it  takes  us  to  comprehend. 
The  sea !  the  sea  ever  before  us,  though  we  know  that 
we  are  in  Nizam,  in  the  very  centre  of  India. 

There  is  a  sudden  dip  in  the  ground,  and  the  ever- 
changing  sea  lies  extended  before  us.  We  overlook  it 
from  the  summit  of  the  immense  cliff  along  which  our 
road  runs,  and  we  feel  the  mighty  wind  coming  from 
below,  a  wind  chilly  as  that  of  the  ocean. 

But  these  are  only  plains  which  extend  before  us, 
plains  from  whose  surface  the  wind  raises  the  clouds 
of  dust  which  so  resemble  the  foaming  billows. 

Now  we  reach  our  journey's  end,  and  the  grottos,  of 
which  there  is  as  yet  no  sign,  lie  underneath  us,  along 
the  mournful  shore  :  they  are  hollowed  out  in  these 
enormous  cliffs  and  their  dreadful  mouths  of  terror  are 
open  on  to  this  waterless  ocean. 

It  is  night  and  the  stars  are  shining  as  my  cart  stops 
before  the  "  Rest  Houses,"  out  of  which  the  hosts, 
two  white-haired  Indians,  hasten  to  receive  me,  calling 
loudly  the  while  to  their  serving-men,  who  are  idling 
about  the  neighbourhood. 

No  one  would  consent  to  conduct  me  through  the 
grottos  of  Siva.  "  It  would  be  better,"  one  said,  "  to 
wait  for  day."  At  last  a  shepherd,  who  was  bringing 
back  his  goats,  was  persuaded  by  offer  of  money,  and 
we  set  out,  carrying  a  lantern  that  could  be  lighted 
when  we  got  down  to  the  dismal  cavern  mouths. 

The  night  is  moonless  but  clear,  so  when  our  eyes 


IN   FAMISHED  INDIA  159 

become  accustomed  to  the  gloom  we  can  distinguish 
our  surroundings. 

First  we  descend  by  a  slope,  some  five  or  six  hundred 
metres  long,  to  the  plain  that  looked  like  the  sea.  We 
descend  through  great  silence  :  above  us  the  twinkling 
magnificence  of  the  stars,  around  us  strange-shaped 
rocks  and  cactus  plants.  No  doubt  these  plants  are 
withered  up  like  everything  else,  but  they  are  still 
erect,  and  their  stiff  branches  resemble  waxen  lights 
held  in  a  candelabrum.  The  gloom  becomes  more 
pronounced  as  we  reach  the  bottom  and  walk  along 
the  edges  of  the  tideless  shore  at  the  foot  of  the  over- 
shadowing cliffs.  The  wind  which  blew  so  strongly 
as  the  night  was  falling  has  subsided  ;  there  is  not  a 
rustle  audible  anywhere,  and  a  strange  solemnity 
has  come  upon  the  place. 

On  the  face  of  the  cliffs  we  see  the  yawning  mouths  of 
the  caves,  more  intensely  black  than  all  the  surround- 
ing darkness,  seeming  too  vast  to  be  the  work  of  man, 
yet  too  regular  to  be  natural.  But  I  had  expected  to 
find  them  thus  ;  I  knew  that  they  must  be  fashioned  so. 

We  pass  them  by  without  stopping  ;  then  the  shep- 
herd suddenly  hesitates,  turns  round,  and  retraces  his 
steps.  Religious  dread,  or  perhaps  even  fear  alone, 
prevents  him  from  approaching  the  place  to  which  he 
had  proposed  to  take  me,  doubtless  some  place  of 
nameless  dread.  Then  with  a  manner  which  seems 
to  say  "  No  !  You  will  have  to  be  satisfied  with  this 
one,"  he  plunged  forward  amidst  masses  of  fallen  rock, 
stones,  and  cactus  plants,  into  the  mouth  of  the 
nearest  of  the  gloomy  excavations. 

Already  we  are  surrounded  by  a  fearful  beauty — 
though  I  understand  that  this  is  nothing  to  the  one 
that  he  did  not  dare  to  show  me. 

There  are  courts  open  to  the  sky,  great  as  places 
of  stately  festival,  hewn  out  of  the  solid  granite,  out 
of  the  mountain  itself.  Their  walls  rise  vertically  to 
an  overwhelming  height,  outlined  by  three  or  four 
tiers  of  galleries,  placed  one  above  the  other,  and 
between  whose  massive  pillars  rows  of  gods  of  super- 


i6o  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

human  stature  are  ranged — a  dead  audience  assembled 
to  witness  the  spectacle  of  Death.  The  darkness  of 
night  enshrouds  everything,  but  the  ceiling  of  the 
Titanesque  hall  is  the  star-strewn  sky,  whose  vague 
and  diffused  light  allows  us  to  distinguish  the  crowd 
of  solemn  giants  who  watch  us  as  we  approach. 

There  are  so  many  of  these  sculptured  caverns  that 
one  almost  forgets  the  number,  though  each  one  re- 
presents the  work  of  an  entire  generation. 

My  goatherd,  recovering  from  his  first  timidity, 
becomes  more  and  more  bold  as  we  proceed  on  our 
Dantesque  journey.  He  now  lights  the  lantern  that 
we  may  enter  a  cavern  which  is  quite  dark,  one  that 
must  date  back  to  some  early  and  barbarous  age,  one 
where  we  shall  no  longer  be  safeguarded  by  the  stars, 
for  the  sky  will  be  hidden  by  the  granite  masses  of  the 
mountain.  It  is  a  kind  of  avenue,  high  and  deep  as 
the  nave  of  a  Gothic  cathedral,  from  the  smooth  walls 
of  which  spring  jutting  arches  which  resemble  ribs. 
It  is  as  if  we  were  in  the  inside  of  some  animal,  or  the 
carcass  of  a  monstrous  whale.  So  poorly  does  our 
little  lantern  light  up  the  surrounding  darkness  that 
it  at  first  seems  as  if  the  long  hall  is  quite  empty. 
But  now  a  form  becomes  visible,  and  the  outline  of 
some  one  stationed  at  the  back  acquires  distinctness  ; 
it  is  the  image  of  a  solitary  god  some  twenty  or  thirty 
feet  high,  seated  on  a  throne  whose  shadow  covers 
the  wall  behind  him  and  reaches  to  the  roof,  where  it 
dances  at  the  pleasure  of  the  little  flame  we  have 
brought  with  us.  The  god  is  hewn  from  the  same 
granite,  and  is  of  the  same  colour  as  the  rest  of  the 
place,  but  his  giant's  face  has  been  painted  red  and 
the  great  eyes  are  white  with  black  pupils.  These 
eyes  are  lowered  towards  us  as  though  in  surprise 
that  we  should  thus  disturb  him  in  the  midst  of  his 
nightly  slumber.  The  stillness  of  the  cavern  is  so  deep 
that  the  vibration  of  our  voices  continues  to  be  heard 
long  after  we  have  finished  speaking,  and  the  horrible 
stare  of  the  god  causes  a  feeling  of  embarrassment. 
However,  the  goatherd  is  no  longer  afraid  now  that 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  161 

he  has  satisfied  himself  that  all  the  stony  images  are 
as  motionless  during  the  night  as  they  are  by  day. 
On  leaving  the  grotto  he  extinguishes  the  lamp,  and 
from  the  deliberation  with  which  he  retraces  his  steps, 
I  gather  at  once  that  he  is  going  to  take  me  to  some- 
thing which  he  did  not  dare  to  face  at  first.  We  walk 
hurriedly  across  the  sand,  which  resembles  that  of  the 
seashore,  and  following  the  line  of  the  cliffs  pass,  with- 
out stopping,  before  the  mouths  of  those  caves  whose 
mysteries  are  now  already  explored. 

The  night  is  far  advanced  as  we  reach  our  destina- 
tion. The  man  lights  the  lantern  and  then  hesitates 
as  if  to  collect  his  courage.  Evidently  the  place  to 
which  we  are  going  must  be  very  dark. 

A  touch  of  unexpected  horror  is  imparted  to  this 
cave,  the  entrance  of  which  is  much  larger  than  any 
of  the  others,  by  the  fact  that  the  guardians  of  the 
threshold,  instead  of  being  calm  like  those  we  had 
lately  seen,  are  twisted  and  contorted  in  convulsions 
of  suffering,  rage,  or  agony  ;  but  in  the  dim  light  it 
is  difficult  to  distinguish,  amidst  the  black  masses 
that  surround  us,  which  are  images  and  which  are  but 
the  jagged  shapes  of  the  mountain  itself,  for  the  very 
rocks  and  the  huge  overhanging  fragments  have 
writhing  attitudes  and  the  convulsive  forms  of  pain. 
We  stand  before  the  dwellings  of  Siva,  the  implacable 
god  of  Death,  he  who  slays  for  the  very  joy  of  slaying. 

Even  the  silence  that  guards  the  threshold  has  some- 
thing about  it  that  is  peculiar  and  terrible  ;  rocks  and 
great  human  forms,  those  stark  and  agonized  shapes 
over  whose  tortured  heads  ten  centuries  have  already 
passed,  are  enveloped  in  silence  whose  sonority  is  so 
awe-inspiring  that  we  dread  the  sound  of  our  own  foot- 
steps and  listen  with  anxiety  to  our  very  breathing. 

But  now  we  are  prepared  for  everything  except 
noise.  Hardly,  however,  had  we  penetrated  into  the 
first  vault  before  a  sudden  and  startling  report  re- 
sounded through  the  air,  just  as  if  we  had  touched 
the  mechanism  of  a  spring  gun,  a  report  that  instantly 
spread  through  all  the  temples — a  flapping  of  great 

11 


162  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

black  wings,  the  maddened  wheelings  of  great  birds 
of  prey,  eagles,  owls,  and  vultures,  sleeping  in  the 
crannies  of  the  roof.  This  rushing  noise  of  wings  is 
swollen  by  the  hollow  echoes  into  a  mighty  symphony 
of  sound  which  rises  and  falls,  and  dies  away  into  the 
distance  ;  then  it  is  no  more,  and  silence  reigns. 

Leaving  this  vaulted  archway,  which  was  but  a 
peristyle,  we  again  perceive  the  stars  above  our  heads, 
though  they  are  only  visible  at  intervals  and  have  the 
far-off  look  of  stars  seen  from  the  bottom  of  some 
great  cleft.  The  successions  of  open  courtyards  which 
have  been  made  by  removing  half  a  mountain,  by 
taking  away  enough  granite  to  build  a  town,  are 
peculiar  in  that  their  walls,  which  rise  to  the  height 
of  two  hundred  feet,  with  galleries  of  gods  in  full  array 
of  battle,  are  nor  perpendicular  but  lean  over  us 
threateningly.  The  solidity  of  the  rock,  which  extends 
the  whole  way  down  in  a  single  solid  mass  that  has 
neither  flaw  nor  crevice,  was  relied  upon  to  produce 
the  effect  of  a  chasm  that  is  closing  in — a  chasm  in 
which  we  must  be  instantly  engulfed. 

And  then,  those  first  courtyards  were  empty,  while 
these  are  filled  with  many  colossal  objects,  obelisks, 
statues,  elephants  on  pedestals,  porches,  and  temples. 
It  is  no  longer  possible  to  form  any  idea  of  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  grotto,  for  midnight  is  near  and  our 
lantern  flickers  feebly  amidst  the  gloom.  We  can 
only  discern  a  profusion  of  horrible  images  ;  here  the 
face  of  a  dead  man  figured  in  the  rock ;  there  the 
form  of  a  grinning  skeleton  or  ogling  monster  starting 
out  of  the  obscurity  through  which  we  wend  our 
way,  only  to  fade  instantly  out  of  sight  amidst  the 
confused  shapes  of  darkness  which  surround  us. 

At  first  we  only  saw  single  elephants  ;  now  there  are 
troops  of  them,  standing  upright  with  pendant  trunks, 
the  only  things  that  seem  calm  amidst  the  rout  of 
phantoms  that  are  tortured  and  twisted  by  all  the 
agonies  of  death.  These  elephants  form  the  supports 
of  the  triple  sequence  of  monolithic  temples  that 
occupy  the  centre  of  the  cave. 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  163 

We  pass  between  these  temples  and  the  leaning 
walls  that  surround  them  so  threateningly.  On  our 
way  we  have  occasional  glimpses  of  the  stars,  which, 
however,  have  never  seemed  so  far  away  as  they  seem 
now.  Around  us  a  confused  medley  of  furious  forms, 
fighting  monsters,  and  of  shameful  and  horrible  em- 
braces, disembowelled  and  headless  human  beings 
still  locked  in  each  others'  arms.  Siva,  Siva  at  every 
turn,  Siva  decked  with  a  necklace  of  skulls,  Siva,  who 
engenders  and  who  slays,  Siva,  who  has  many  arms, 
so  that  he  may  slay  the  more,  Siva,  whose  mouth  is 
twisted  with  a  grin  of  irony,  making  hideous  love,  so 
that  he  may  slay  the  children  whom  he  begets,  Siva, 
who  dances  with  mad  shouts  of  triumph  on  quivering 
tatters  of  human  flesh,  on  limbs  torn  from  their 
sockets,  or  amongst  the  entrails  which  he  has  snatched 
from  mutilated  corpses.  Siva,  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy 
and  pleasure  trampling  on  the  bodies  of  little  girls 
whose  skulls  have  been  battered  in  by  his  cruel  heels. 
These  horrors  emerge  one  by  one  from  the  surrounding 
gloom.  Our  nickering  light  plays  under  them  for  an 
instant,  then  they  disappear,  and  darkness  enshrouds 
them  once  more.  In  places  the  groups  are  nearly 
effaced,  for  the  flight  of  centuries  has  left  its  trace, 
and  their  faint  outlines  are  hardly  visible  before  they 
fade  into  the  indistinctness  of  the  deep  shades  to 
mingle  with  rocky  shapes  that  seem  vaguely  instinct 
with  the  horrors  that  animate  the  place.  I  no  longer 
see,  I  no  longer  know  where  they  end.  I  only  feel 
that  the  whole  mountain,  even  to  its  very  heart,  must 
be  crowded  with  these  dim  forms  of  horror,  thronged 
with  this  luxuriance  of  immortal  agony. 

The  elephants  that  support  the  central  temples 
upon  their  backs  seem  out  of  place  here,  for  their 
attitudes  are  calm  and  tranquil,  but  on  passing  round 
to  the  other  side  of  the  temples  we  find  that  the 
corresponding  elephants  are  animated  by  the  pre- 
vailing madness  of  torture  and  of  strife.  Some  are 
embraced  by  tigers  and  other  wild  beasts,  fantastic 
beasts  ;  others  are  torn  by  their  cruel  teeth  ;  here, 


164  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

half-crushed  by  the  temples  on  their  backs,  the 
elephants  wage  combats  to  the  death.  On  this  side 
the  great  encircling  wall,  that  solid  mass  of  granite, 
leans  over  more  than  ever,  and  the  confused  luxuri- 
ance of  figures  only  commences  to  be  outlined  some 
twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  while  the  lower  part  of 
the  wall — which  bellies  out  like  the  side  of  some 
overhanging  ruin  that  is  just  about  to  fall  to  pieces — 
is  smooth,  with  here  and  there  a  few  soft  curves.  I 
can  fancy  myself  in  the  inside  of  a  deep-water  shell, 
or  in  the  hollow  of  a  gigantic  wave  that  has  lifted  all 
these  edifices  on  its  mighty  crest,  from  which  they 
must  instantly  fall,  burying  me  in  chaos. 

We  have  now  completed  the  circuitous  course 
which  leads  between  the  lofty  monolithic  temples  and 
the  graven  mountain  walls  that  dominate  them  on 
every  side.  The  interior  of  the  temples  is  now  the 
only  thing  left  to  see,  but  my  guide  again  hesitates 
and  suggests  that  we  should  wait  till  the  morrow,  till 
the  sun  has  risen. 

The  staircases  which  lead  upwards  are  in  disorder ;  all 
the  steps  are  broken,  and  the  constant  passage  of  naked 
feet  has  given  them  a  dangerous  and  slippery  polish. 

We  maintain  silence  as  we  ascend,  involuntarily  and 
almost  without  knowing  why,  but  the  smallest  stone 
that  totters,  or  the  tiniest  pebble  that  rolls  down  makes 
an  alarming  noise  that  is  repeated  by  the  echoes. 
Around  us  on  every  side  are  manifold  images  of  horror. 
Siva  in  varied  attitudes,  Siva  tortured  by  convulsions, 
slim-waisted  Sivas  expanding  their  heaving  chests  in 
the  drunken  delight  of  passionate  love  and  of  slaughter. 

Even  amidst  the  darkest  gloom  I  did  not  regret  that 
I  had  forgotten  to  bring  either  a  firearm  or  a  stick, 
and  the  possibility  of  being  interfered  with  either  by 
man  or  beast  never  once  crossed  my  mind.  But  now 
the  terror  of  the  goatherd  communicates  itself  to  me, 
a  grisly  fear  that  is  nameless  and  indescribable. 

I  had  expected  that  horror  would  run  riot  in  the 
sanctuary,  that  I  should  find  forms  of  unspeakable 
dread  ;  but  no,  all  is  simple  and  peaceful.  It  is  like 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  165 

the  great  calm  that  must  inevitably  greet  one  on  the 
other  side  after  the  terrors  of  death  have  done  their 
work.  There  is  not  a  single  graven  image,  not  even 
the  suggestion  of  human  or  animal  shapes.  There  is 
absolutely  nothing  :  the  grave  and  solemn  temples  are 
quite  empty.  Only  if  we  walk  or  speak  the  echoes 
are  louder  and  more  mournful  than  they  were. 
Otherwise  there  is  nothing  to  affright  us,  not  even  the 
flapping  of  a  night  bird's  wings.  Even  the  square 
columns  that  have  been  hewn  from  the  solid  rock  and 
which  extend  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor  are  decorated 
with  a  sober  and  severe  pattern  of  intercrossing  lines. 

It  is  evident,  however,  in  spite  of  the  ruin  and 
ravage  wrought  by  time,  that  the  place  has  always 
been  sacred.  We  feel  this  the  moment  we  enter,  for 
we  are  immediately  inspired  with  a  feeling  of  re- 
ligious dread.  These  walls  would  not  be  so  blackened 
by  the  smoke  of  torches  and  lanterns,  nor  would  these 
floors  of  granite  be  so  smooth  and  greasy,  unless  the 
place  were  still  visited  by  crowds  of  worshippers.  The 
god  of  Death  has  not  deserted  the  mountain  that  the 
people  of  another  age  have  hollowed  out  for  him, 
and  a  soul  still  dwells  in  this  ancient  sanctuary. 

There  are  three  chambers,  three  temples,  each 
situated  above  the  other,  all  cut  out  of  the  same  block 
of  stone.  The  last  of  the  three  is  the  holy  of  holies, 
the  forbidden  place  which  I  have  been  debarred  from 
visiting  in  all  the  other  Brahmin  temples. 

There,  at  least,  I  expected  to  see  something  of 
nameless  horror,  but,  again,  there  is  scarcely  anything 
to  see.  Yet  that  which  is  there  astonishes  and 
terrifies  more  by  its  primitive  simplicity  and  its 
brutal  daring  than  all  the  collections  of  horrors  piled 
up  outside.  On  a  crumbling  stone  altar  is  a  little 
black  pebble  that  shines  like  polished  marble  ;  its 
shape  is  that  of  an  elongated  egg  that  stands  on  end, 
and  on  the  sides  of  the  pedestal  on  which  it  is  placed 
are  graven  those  mysterious  signs  which  the  followers 
of  Siva  never  fail  to  trace  with  ashes  on  their  foreheads 
when  the  morning  light  appears. 


166  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

Everything  around  is  blackened  with  smoke,  and 
the  niches  that  are  hollowed  out  in  the  walls  to  receive 
the  lights  that  the  faithful  bring  are  covered  by  a 
thick  coating  of  soot,  while  thousands  of  wicks,  that 
no  one  dares  to  remove,  swim  in  oily  filth.  All  this 
foulness  tells  of  an  old  and  stubborn  creed,  an  un- 
civilized and  timorous  worship. 

But  this  black  pebble,  the  centre,  the  reason,  and 
the  cause  of  all  this  tremendous  task  of  sculpture  and 
of  excavation,  is  the  most  expressive  and  the  most  con- 
crete symbol  that  the  Indians  of  former  days  could  find 
to  typify  the  god,  who  ceaselessly  engenders  that  he  may 
ceaselessly  destroy :  it  is  the  Lingam  :  it  represents  the 
god  of  procreation  who  labours  but  to  nourish  death. 

A  faint  light  is  hovering  over  the  expanse  which 
resembles  the  sea  as  I  quit  the  travellers'  shelter  where 
I  had  slept  on  my  return  from  the  dreadful  caves. 
The  day  has  hardly  dawned,  and  under  the  cloud  of 
dust  which  hangs  over  it  like  a  mist,  the  expanse  has 
a  tone  of  blue,  that  neutral  blue  of  the  fog-enshrouded 
sea,  but  the  sun  rises  quickly  and  discovers  a  reddish 
plain,  parched  and  waterless,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  a  few  dead  trees.  I  am  on  my  way  to  the 
temples  of  Siva,  to  see  if  all  those  things  were  real  or 
if  they  were  but  phantasms  which  will  not  bear  the 
light  of  day.  This  time  I  am  alone,  for  I  know  the 
road  that  leads  down  among  the  rocks  and  the  tall 
cactus  plants  standing  erect  like  candles  of  mellow  wax. 

Though  the  sun  has  only  just  risen,  its  rays  are 
already  powerful  enough  to  make  my  temples  burn,  a 
wicked  and  destructive  sun  that  spreads  death  and  deso- 
lation over  the  Indian  land  with  daily  increasing  force. 

Three  men  carrying  long  sticks,  shepherds  without 
flocks,  ascend  from  the  plain,  saluting  me  profoundly 
as  they  pass.  They  are  terribly  emaciated,  and  fever 
glows  in  their  great  eyes.  Doubtless  they  have  come 
from  the  land  of  famine,  on  the  threshold  of  which  I 
am  now  standing.  Thousands  of  little  plants  that 
formerly  carpeted  the  mountain  side  are  now  changed 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  167 

into  a  sad  and  lifeless  coating  of  felt,  but  the  beasts 
that  yet  remain  still  carry  on  their  endless  struggle 
for  existence,  and  the  ground  is  strewn  with  the  bodies 
of  little  birds  on  which  eagles  have  lately  preyed. 
Huge  and  voracious  spiders  have  spread  nets  every- 
where to  catch  the  last  butterfly  or  the  last  grass- 
hopper.    And  the  glory  of  the  sun,  whose  fierceness 
increases  every  moment,  till  it  becomes  like  a  scorch- 
ing brazier,  is  as  sinister  as  the  glory  of  Siva  .  .  .  the 
god  who  engenders  and  who  slays.     How  my  thoughts 
are  fixed  on  him  this  morning  as  I  descend  to  his 
horrible  sanctuary  !     How  well,  too,  I  can  understand 
him,  as  the  Brahmins  know  him,  the  god  who  kindles 
life  in  man  and  beast  with  mad  and  mocking  pro- 
fusion,   but   who   takes   care   to   invent   an   enemy 
especially  fitted  to  destroy  each  species  he  has  created. 
How  joyously  and  with  what  inexhaustible  and  de- 
tailed  art   has   the   god   made   teeth,   horns,    claws, 
famine,  plagues,  and  the  venom  of  serpents  and  of 
flies.     He  has  sharpened  the  beaks  of  the  birds  which 
skim  over  the  ponds  teeming  with  fish,  and  for  man, 
who  has  acquired  the  mastery  over  savage  beasts,  he 
has  cunningly  kept  disease,  exhaustion,  and  old  age  ; 
and  into  the  heart  of  all  he  has  thrust  the  foolish  and 
maddening  dart  of  love.     For  all  he  has  designed  the 
countless,  impalpable  swarms  of  what  is  infinitesimal, 
filling  even  the  streams  of  clear  water  with  myriads  of 
destroyers  or  with  the  spawn  of  cruel  worms  ready  to 
batten  on  the  vitals  of  those  who  come  to  drink.  .  .  . 
"  Suffering  exists  to  elevate  and  purify  the  soul,"  I 
grant  it,  but  what  about  our  children,  our  little  ones, 
who  died  without  ever  having  understood,  choked  by 
a  disease  which  has  been  specially  invented  for  them  ? 
For  that  matter,  too,  I  have  seen  suffering,  nay,  even 
anguish  and  useless  supplication  in  the  eyes  of  the 
humblest  creatures.  .  .  .  Poor  little  birds  that  linger 
in  the  agony  which  imbecile  sportsmen  have  inflicted 
on  them,  is  this  to  elevate  their  souls  ?     And  the 
tiny-winged  things   whose  life-blood  is  drained    by 
fierce  spiders  !     What  boundless  cruelty  infests  the 


i68  IN  FAMISHED   INDIA 

whole  seething  mass  of  creation,  a  loathsome  cruelty 
the  reality  of  which  has  been  acknowledged  by  the 
peoples  of  all  ages,  but  whose  pitiless  truth  has  never 
struck  me  so  forcibly  as  it  does  now  that  I  am  once 
more  seeking  the  grottos  of  Siva.  Yet  I  am  one  of  the 
happy  and  fortunate  ones  whom  famine  cannot  touch 
and  for  whom  fate  seems  to  have  no  immediate 
menace.  At  the  most  I  have  but  to  fear  the  burning 
sun  or  the  bite  of  some  black-ringed  cobra  that  may 
be  lying  under  the  withered  grass. 

When  I  reach  the  bottom  and  stand  on  the  plain  of 
dust  and  sand  I  have  only  to  turn  to  the  right  in 
order  to  find  myself  within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of 
the  huge  and  yawning  entrance.  No  alarming  noise 
startles  me  this  morning  as  I  enter  the  dreadful 
sanctuary.  The  eagles,  vultures,  and  falcons  which 
sleep  in  the  roof  have  already  started  out  in  search 
of  prey  and  hunt  with  ever-ready  claws  and  beak. 
Everything  is  silent,  but  the  silence  is  less  terrible 
than  it  was  on  my  midnight  visit. 

Once  more  I  see  the  monolithic  temples  supported 
on  the  backs  of  the  elephants,  and  the  obelisks  that 
stand  in  front  of  them,  rising  up  in  the  centre  of  this 
deep  cleft  from  whose  overhanging  walls  the  graven 
images  look  down.  But  by  the  light  of  the  rising  sun 
all  seems  less  colossal  and  less  superhuman,  and  not 
horrible  enough  to  celebrate  the  god  as  he  deserves. 
These  were  the  works  of  a  childish  race  who  had  not  lived 
long  enough  to  understand  the  terrible  ferocity  of  life 
or  who  did  not  know  how  adequately  to  symbolize  it. 

There  is  nothing  to  recall  the  impression  that  was 
made  on  me  during  my  midnight  visit  when  I  came 
here  in  the  dark  with  a  feeble  lantern  that  only  lighted 
up  the  images  from  underneath.  The  morning  light 
reveals  a  state  of  extreme  dilapidation.  It  is  not  only 
that  centuries  have  passed  by,  reaping  their  harvests 
of  heads,  bodies,  columns,  and  capitals,  but  that  these 
temples,  like  all  the  temples  of  Siva,  were  assailed  at 
the  time  of  the  Mussulman  Conquest  by  hordes  of 
fanatics  intent  on  worshipping  God  by  some  other  name. 


IN  FAMISHED   INDIA  169 

When  I  saw  these  horrors  enshrouded  in  the  gloom  of 
night,  I  did  not  suspect  that  they  had  once  been  painted, 
but  now  that  I  can  plainly  see  the  whole  crowded 
assemblage  gesticulating  wildly  under  the  shadow 
of  the  overhanging  rocks,  I  perceive  that  they  are  still 
tinted  with  a  cadaverous  green  and  that  the  backs  of 
their  niches  are  yet  of  the  reddish  colour  of  dried  blood. 

The  monolithic  temples  in  the  centre  were  also  in 
those  days  painted  with  many  colours  and  tints  like  the 
temples  of  Thebes  and  Memphis  ;  whites,  yellows,  and 
reds  still  linger  on  the  more  sheltered  places.  This 
morning,  however,  I  shall  ascend  by  myself.  I  wish  to 
be  alone.  The  presence  of  a  sentient  being,  even  so  rude 
and  uneducated  a  one  as  the  goatherd  who  was  with  me 
the  night  before,  would  disturb  my  colloquy  with  Siva. 

Within  there  is  such  a  silence  as  I  had  foreseen, 
but  I  had  thought  that  there  would  have  been  more 
light.  It  is  almost  dark  in  spite  of  the  rising  sun, 
under  whose  fierce  rays  the  great  red  plain  is  already 
glowing.  A  little  of  the  freshness  which  night  had 
left  still  lingers  on,  as  if  imprisoned  by  these  granite 
walls,  but  within  the  secret  sanctuary,  whose  walls 
have  been  befouled  by  the  smoky  torches  of  by- 
gone ages,  an  eternal  gloom  surrounds  that  black 
pebble,  the  Lingam,  which  represents  the  god  of  Life 
and  Death  with  such  irony,  yet  with  such  perfect  truth. 


THE   SONG   OF   FAMINE 

It  is  especially  the  little  children,  poor  little  skele- 
tons who  look  at  me  with  eyes  filled  with  mute  wonder 
at  their  own  sufferings,  who  sing  or  wail  this  song. 

They  stand  at  the  entrances  of  the  villages,  or  in 
the  open  places  by  the  roadside,  clasping  tightly  with 
both  hands  their  hollow  bellies,  which  resemble  empty 
leather  wine-bottles,  so  loosely  do  the  folds  of  their 
skin  hang  down. 

To  hear  the  full  blast  of  this  dread  song,  one  must 
travel  about  one  hundred  leagues  from  the  cave  of  the 


170  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

destroying  god,  towards  the  north-west,  towards  the 
land  of  Rajput,  where  men  die  by  thousands  for  want 
of  the  little  rice  which  no  one  sends  them. 

In  this  land  the  forests  are  dead,  the  jungle  is  dead, 
everything  is  dead. 

The  spring  rains,  that  used  to  come  from  the 
Arabian  Sea,  have  failed  for  many  years  past,  or  they 
have  gone  elsewhere,  expending  themselves  uselessly 
on  the  deserts  of  Beloochistan.  So  the  torrents  have 
no  more  water,  the  rivers  are  dried  up,  and  the  trees 
can  no  longer  clothe  themselves  with  leaves. 

It  is  by  the  little  frequented  route  of  Rutlam  and 
Indore  that  I  journey  towards  the  land  of  famine,  and 
I  am  on  one  of  those  railways  which  now  furrow 
India  in  every  direction.  The  train  is  almost  empty, 
and  the  few  passengers  are  all  natives. 

For  hours  an  endless  succession  of  forests  passes 
before  us,  no  longer  forests  of  palm  trees,  but  of  trees 
like  our  own.  Indeed,  were  it  not  for  their  extent  and 
for  those  wild  backgrounds,  we  might  fancy  ourselves 
at  home.  Their  delicate  branches  are  of  a  grayish 
colour,  and  the  general  tint  is  that  of  our  oak  trees  in 
December.  Ancient  Gaul  in  late  autumn  must  have 
looked  so  ;  but  it  is  April  and  we  are  in  India,  and  this 
tropical  spring  heat,  this  fiery  glow  which  pours  down 
on  the  wintry  landscape,  only  serves  to  plunge  our 
thoughts  into  a  bewildering  maze.  There  is  nothing, 
however,  which  we  see  during  our  first  day's  journey 
which  seems  to  point  to  a  pressing  want,  still  we  seem 
possessed  by  a  feeling  of  something  abnormal,  of  a 
desolation  that  cannot  be  alleviated.  Indeed,  one 
might  almost  fancy  oneself  to  be  travelling  through  a 
planet  of  which  the  end  were  threateningly  nigh. 

Need  I  say  that  India,  the  mother  and  the  cradle  of 
the  European  race,  is  a  land  full  of  ruins  !  The 
spectres  of  towns  which  perished  ages  and  ages  ago 
are  to  be  found  almost  everywhere,  towns  whose  names 
are  now  forgotten,  but  which  were  great  cities  in  their 
day,  and  which  overlooked  abysses  from  their  lofty 
mountain  perches.  There  are  ramparts  extending  for 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  171 

miles,  and  palaces  and  temples  that  are  now  only  the 
home  of  monkeys  and  of  snakes.  By  the  side  of  such 
ruins,  how  pitiful  our  donjon  towers,  our  manor 
houses,  and  all  the  remnants  of  our  feudal  age  appear  ! 

Ruins  and  forests  of  the  colour  of  ochre  or  burnt 
sienna  follow  one  another  all  along  the  line,  plunged, 
till  the  evening  comes,  in  a  shimmering  haze  of  heat. 
At  last  the  burning  sun  sets  behind  the  masses  of 
dead  vegetation  and  the  ruins  of  the  legendary  cities  ; 
but  the  air  is  so  dust -laden  that  the  glory  of  the  sun 
is  dimmed,  and  its  colour  is  of  that  faded  rosy  hue 
which  we  see  on  a  chilly  winter's  evening. 

Next  morning  we  wake  and  find  ourselves  on  the 
boundless  jungle.  At  the  first  village  at  which  we 
stop  a  sound  is  heard  directly  the  wheels  have  ceased 
their  noisy  clanking — a  peculiar  sound  that  seems  to 
strike  a  chill  into  us  even  before  we  have  understood 
its  nature.  It  is  the  beginning  of  that  horrible  song 
which  we  shall  hear  so  often  now  that  we  have  entered 
the  land  of  famine.  Nearly  all  the  voices  are  those  of 
children,  and  the  sound  has  some  resemblance  to  the 
uproar  that  is  heard  in  the  playground  of  a  school, 
but  there  is  an  undefined  note  of  something  harsh 
and  weak  and  shrill  which  fills  us  with  a  sense  of  pain. 

Oh  !  look  at  the  poor  little  things  jostling  there 
against  the  barrier,  stretching  out  their  withered 
hands  towards  us  from  the  end  of  the  bones  which 
represent  their  arms.  Every  part  of  their  meagre 
skeleton  shows  with  shocking  plainness  through  the 
brown  skin  that  hangs  in  folds  about  them  ;  their 
stomachs  are  so  sunken  that  one  might  think  that 
their  bowels  had  been  altogether  removed.  Flies 
swarm  on  their  lips  and  eyes,  drinking  what  moisture 
may  still  exude.  They  are  almost  breathless  and 
nearly  lifeless,  yet  they  still  stand  upright  and  still 
can  cry.  They  are  hungry,  so  very  hungry,  and  it 
seems  to  them  that  the  strangers  who  pass  by  in  their 
fine  carriages  must  be  rich,  and  that  they  will  pity 
them  and  throw  them  something. 

"  Maharajah  1    Maharajah  !  "  all  the  little  voices 


172  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

cry  at  once  in  a  kind  of  quivering  song.  There  are 
some  who  are  barely  five  years  old,  and  these,  too, 
cry  "  Maharajah  !  Maharajah  !  "  as  they  stretch  their 
terribly  wasted  hands  through  the  barrier. 

The  Indians  who  are  travelling  in  the  train  are  only 
humble  occupants  of  the  third  and  fourth  classes,  but 
they  throw  what  they  have,  scraps  of  cake  and  copper 
coins,  for  which  the  famished  children  rush  like  wild 
beasts,  trampling  each  other  under  foot.  What  use 
can  they  make  of  the  money  ?  It  seems  that  there  is 
yet  food  in  the  village  shops  for  those  who  have 
money  to  buy  it  with.  Even  now  there  are  four 
wagons  of  rice  coupled  to  the  train  behind,  and  loads 
pass  daily,  but  no  one  will  give  them  any,  not  even  a 
handful,  not  even  the  few  grains  on  which  they  could 
live  for  a  little  while.  These  wagons  are  going  to  the 
inhabitants  of  those  towns  where  people  still  have 
money  and  can  pay. 

What  is  it  that  is  stopping  us  ?  Why  are  we  forced 
to  stay  so  long  at  this  dismal  place,  where  the  crowd 
of  the  starving  swells  in  size,  as  every  minute  passes, 
the  song  of  their  distress  becoming  fiercer  and  fiercer  ? 

The  land  around  the  station  is  so  dry  and  dusty  that 
the  fields  which  used  to  be  cultivated  with  rice  and 
other  crops  merely  resemble  a  desert  of  ashes.  Now 
the  women  approach,  or  rather  the  skeletons  of 
women,  with  hanging  breasts  which  look  like  leather 
bags.  They  seem  almost  exhausted  by  their  efforts, 
for  they,  too,  have  hastened  here  in  the  hope  of  selling 
the  heavy  and  stinking  bundles  which  they  carry  on 
their  heads,  skins  stripped  from  their  cattle  which 
have  perished  of  hunger.  But  the  price  of  a  cow 
which  still  shows  signs  of  life  has  fallen  to  a  quarter 
of  a  rupee  (about  fivepence),  for  it  is  impossible  to 
provide  food  for  cattle,  and  nothing  in  the  world 
would  induce  the  people  of  this  Brahmin  country  to 
eat  the  flesh.  So  who  wants  to  buy  a  stinking  hide 
that  swarms  with  flies  ? 

I  have  already  thrown  out  all  the  small  coins  which 
I  have  by  me,  but,  my  God  !  why  do  not  they  start  ? 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  173 

Oh  I  the  despair  of  a  tiny  mite  of  three  or  four,  from 
whom  a  somewhat  bigger  child  has  snatched  the  coin 
that  it  held  clenched  so  tightly  in  its  little  hand. 

At  last  the  train  moves  and  the  outcry  dies  away. 
Once  more  we  plunge  into  the  silent  jungle,  but  the 
jungle  is  dead,  that  jungle  which  ought  to  swarm  with 
life  now  that  the  spring  has  come.  The  thickets  and 
the  grasses  will  never  be  green  again,  and  April  has 
no  power  to  awaken  their  languishing  sap.  So,  like 
the  forest,  the  jungle  keeps  its  wintry  appearance 
in  spite  of  the  fierce  and  scorching  sun.  Here  and 
there  we  see  thin  and  scared  gazelles  wandering  about, 
poor  beasts  that  cannot  find  food,  and  that  do  not 
know  where  to  search  for  water.  Sometimes  we  see  a 
young  branch  projecting  from  the  trunk  of  an  old  and 
withered  tree,  a  tiny  twig  that  seems  to  have  collected 
all  the  flowing  sap,  so  that  it  may  put  forth  a  few 
tender  leaves,  or  even  a  great  red  flower,  which 
blossoms  sadly  in  the  midst  of  all  this  desolation. 

At  each  village  where  we  stop  a  famished  horde 
watches  across  the  barrier.  The  song  that  we  so  dread 
to  hear,  that  heart-rending  and  high-pitched  reiteration 
of  the  same  notes,  greets  us  directly  we  approach,  then 
it  swells,  and  at  last  breaks  into  a  despairing  wail  as 
we  disappear  into  the  parched  and  desolate  wastes. 

VI 
THE  BRAHMINS  OF  THE  TEMPLES  OF  ODEYPOURE 

About  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  beyond  the 
dreadful  grottos — in  the  north-west  direction  of  ever- 
increasing  drought — the  white  city  of  Odeypoure,  in 
the  land  of  Meswar,  still  forms  a  delicious  halting- 
place  on' the  famine  track,  whose  traces  I  have  now 
commenced  to  follow. 

As  we  approach,  the  white  masses  of  the  palaces 
and  temples  are  visible  from  a  great  distance,  sur- 
rounded and  inclosed  on  every  side  by  a  background 
of  peaked  and  lofty  mountains,  the  sides  of  which  are 
clothed  with  forests. 


174  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

Notwithstanding  that  the  want  of  rain  has  changed 
the  green  of  the  leaves  to  tones  of  withered  brown,  and 
in  spite  of  the  sadness  of  a  land  whose  trees  have  become 
bare  and  yellow  in  the  springtime,  the  city,  as  seen 
from  a  distance,  still  retains  a  privileged  and  a  smiling 
aspect,  standing  as  it  does  at  the  foot  of  wooded  hills 
that  make  for  it  a  sort  of  nest  of  peace  and  mystery. 

But  as  we  come  nearer  the  distress  is  only  too  pain- 
fully apparent.  Pitiful  beggars  wander  through  the 
avenues  of  dead  trees  leading  to  the  gates.  I  have 
never  seen  such  creatures  elsewhere,  and  it  scarcely 
seems  possible  that  they  are  alive.  They  are  but 
mummies  or  dried  bags  of  bones  that  walk  abroad, 
that  still  have  eyes  in  the  depths  of  their  sockets  and 
voices  in  the  depths  of  their  chests  with  which  to  ask 
for  charity.  They  were  once  labourers  in  the  fields, 
and  they  have  dragged  themselves  towards  the  town 
because  they  heard  that  food  is  still  to  be  had  there. 
But  ofttimes  they  fall  by  the  roadside,  and  here  and 
there  we  see  them  lying  in  the  dust,  which  gives  a 
ghastly  tint  to  their  nude  forms,  and  which  will  soon 
form  the  shroud  of  their  death-agony. 

Along  the  avenue  we  pass  an  endless  succession  of 
sad  and  silent  inclosures  belonging  to  the  Maharajah 
of  Odeypoure.  Projecting  above  the  walls  that  sur- 
round them  are  the  roofs  of  mausoleums,  the  ruins 
of  temples,  stone  and  marble  kiosks,  buildings  with 
cupolas,  which  have  been  used  for  the  cremation  of 
dead  princes,  and  great  dying  trees  denuded  of  leaves, 
on  whose  branches  monkeys  are  seated. 

At  last  we  reach  the  tall  and  white  doors  that  lead 
out  under  the  ramparts.  These  are  guarded  by 
Indians  armed  with  naked  sabres,  and  the  flood  of 
starving  beggary  is  brought  to  a  standstill  as  a  river 
by  a  lock.  Here  they  remain,  a  dreadful  mass  of 
outstretched  hands — not,  indeed,  that  they  are  pre- 
vented from  passing  through,  but  city  gates  have 
ever  been  the  chosen  spot,  in  all  the  countries  of  the 
world,  of  those  who  beg. 

Odeypoure  was  only  founded  some  three  centuries 


: 


P? 
C 


UJ 

C 

0 

u, 

o 

§ 


w 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  175 

ago   (after  the   destruction   of   Chitor,1   the   ancient 
capital  of  Meswar,  whose  ruins  lie  some  miles  farther 
towards  the  east),  but  the  town,  wrapped  in  its  shroud 
of  whitewash,  has  already  an  air  of  extreme  antiquity. 
It  contains  a  number  of  Brahmin  temples,  filled  with 
white  columns  and  white  obelisks,  the  largest  and 
most  sacred  of  which  is  the  temple  dedicated  to  the 
god    Chri-Jannath-Raijie.     Very    white,    too,    those  \ 
great  palaces  of  the  Maharajah  that  stand  upon  a 
lofty  rock,  one  side  commanding  the  whole  town,  the  i 
other  reflecting  its  whiteness  in  a  deep,  clear  lake,  *- 
which  is  surrounded  by  forests  and  mountains. 

Immediately  on  my  arrival  I  was  able  to  win  the 
friendship  of  two  young  Brahmin  brothers,  both 
priests  of  the  great  temple.  It  was  their  custom  to 
pay  me  a  modest  daily  visit  during  those  silent  and 
scorching  hours  when  I  could  no  longer  leave  the  little 
hostelry,  which  was  situated  in  a  lonely  and  dusty 
plain  outside  the  walls.  Both  brothers  were  clothed 
in  white  robes  and  wore  small  turbans,  both  had  the 
same  exquisitely  refined  features,  and  the  same  mystic 
expression  illuminated  the  eyes  of  each. 

Their  noble  lineage  dates  back,  without  a  break  or 
flaw,  for  two  or  three  thousand  years,  and  they  are  the 
children  and  the  great -great -grandchildren  of  those 
dreamers  who,  since  the  beginning  of  time,  have  set 
themselves  apart  from  our  common  humanity,  in  that 
they  have  never  given  themselves  up  to  intemperance, 
nor  mingled  either  in  commerce  or  in  war.  They  have 
never  slain  even  the  humblest  created  thing,  nor  have 
they  eaten  anything  that  has  ever  lived.  It  would 
seem  that  they  are  moulded  from  a  different  and  a 
purer  clay  than  ours,  one  that  has  almost  shaken  off 
the  trammels  of  the  flesh,  even  before  death  has  done 
its  work.  Their  senses,  too,  must  be  more  acute  than 
ours,  more  capable  of  appreciating  the  things  that  lie 
beyond  this  transitory  life. 

Alas  !  my  hopes  of  attaining  a  little  wisdom  from 

1  Chitor,  built  in  728,  sacked  in  1533  by  Bahadur,  Shah  of 
Guzerat,  and  finally  destroyed  in  1 568  by  Akbar. 


176  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

them   were  futile.     From  generation  to   generation 
[  their  Brahminism  has  become  obscured  by  the  abuse 
1  of  ritual  observances,  and  they  no  longer  know  the 
hidden  meaning  of  the  symbols. 

"  The  King  Chri-Jugat-Singhie,  son  of  Chri-Karan- 
Singhie,  great  worshipper  of  the  god  we  serve,  began 
the  construction  of  our  temple  in  1684,  the  year  of  his 
accession  to  the  throne.  This  prince  built  the  other 
temples  on  the  lake,  and  twenty  years  were  occupied 
in  the  construction  of  these  three  buildings.  Several 
princes  from  the  neighbouring  countries  came  in  great 
state,  with  many  elephants,  to  the  ceremony  of  in- 
auguration, which  took  place  in  1708,  when  the  image 
of  our  god  was  placed  in  the  sanctuary." 

This  history  was  told  me  by  one  of  the  brothers  in 
the  midday  silence  and  shade  of  the  "  Travellers' 
Rest."  Its  shutters  were  closed  against  the  sun,  the 
flies,  and  the  parching  wind  of  famine.  They  are 
very  well  informed  about  the  temples  of  Odeypoure, 
and  all  the  deities  of  the  Pouran  Pantheon,  but  when 
I  question  them  about  the  nature  of  their  eternal  hopes, 
and  as  to  what  they  can  see  of  the  life  beyond,  they 
do  not  know  how  to  answer  me  in  any  way  that  I 
can  understand.  We  seem  accordingly  at  once  to  lose 
touch  of  each  other ;  we  no  longer  feel  ourselves  to 
be  souls  bound  by  a  common  tie,  and  a  curtain  like 
that  of  night  falls  between  us.  Doubtless  they  are 
i  seers,  as  indeed  are  the  majority  of  priests,  but  they 
1  are  also  simple-minded  men  who  cannot  explain 
themselves. 

The  two  priests  bring  me  simple  presents  daily, 
flowers  or  modest  cakes  made  in  the  native  fashion. 
They  are  gentle  and  courteous,  too,  but  an  abyss 
seems  to  separate  us,  and,  mingled  with  the  respect 
with  which  they  treat  me,  there  is  a  kind  of  insur- 
mountable disdain.  For  instance,  not  only  would 
they  rather  die  than  partake  of  the  horrible  dishes 
tainted  with  blood  and  flesh  to  which  my  forefathers 
have  accustomed  me,  not  only  would  they  refuse  to 
take  a  glass  of  water  from  my  hands,  but  even  to  eat 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  177 

or  drink  anything  in  my  presence  would  seem  to  them 
a  dishonour  that  nothing  could  efface. 

This  morning  they  pushed  my  door  ajar  a  little 
before  their  usual  hour,  letting  in  a  ray  of  blinding 
light,  clouds  of  dust,  and  the  breath  of  a  furnace. 
They  came  to  tell  me  that  this  was  the  day  on  which 
their  god  held  festival,  and  that  they  would  not  be  at 
liberty  to  come  back,  but  that  I  might  find  them  at 
sunset  in  the  first  inclosure  of  their  temple. 

They  left  some  garlands  of  jasmine,  such  as  the 
people  of  this  part  wear  about  their  necks  during  the 
festivals,  but  they  were  made  of  true  French  jasmine, 
a  sort  that  is  unknown  in  the  more  central  parts  of 
India.  This  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  seen  the  little 
white  flowers  threaded  into  a  childish  garland  since 
the  early  summers  of  my  life,  since  the  time  when, 
seated  in  the  shade  of  the  old  walls  which  surrounded 
the  courtyard  of  my  parents'  house,  I  used  to  delight 
myself  by  weaving  necklets  like  those  my  Indian  friends 
had  brought  to  me.  Suddenly  the  memory  of  those 
far-off  summers  came  back  to  me,  once  more  I  saw 
the  foliage  hanging  from  the  wall,  and  all  the  plants 
and  flowers  of  that  courtyard,  which  used  to  represent 
the  world  to  my  childish  eyes.  Then  for  a  little  while 
the  Brahmin  land  and  the  city  of  Odeypoure,  with  its 
deities,  its  sun,  and  its  famine,  were  blotted  from  my 
mind,  and  seemed  to  fade  into  immeasurable  distance. 

As  the  day  declined  I  sought  the  temple  of  the  god 
Chri-Jannath-Raijie. 

His  temple  is  white  as  the  freshly  fallen  snow,  and 
one  ascends  to  it  by  a  monumental  staircase  of  thirty 
or  forty  steps,  guarded  by  rows  of  stone  elephants. 

Here  in  the  North  of  India  the  Brahmin  pyramids 
no  longer  resemble  those  of  the  South  with  their 
madly  mingling  crowds  of  divinities  and  animals  : 
they  are  more  sober,  more  mysteriously  calm,  and 
from  a  distance  resemble  those  tall,  funereal  trees 
that  grow  in  cemeteries.  The  temple  of  Chri-Jannath- 
Raijie  is  adorned  with  several  of  these  pyramids, 
which  are  white  too,  white  as  the  fallen  snow. 

12 


178  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

As  I  knew  that  none  but  Hindoos  of  noble  caste 
were  allowed  to  pass  within  the  temple,  I  stayed  in  the 
courtyard  and  sent  a  message  to  my  friends.  Though 
they  appeared  at  once,  a  change  seemed  to  have  come 
over  them  since  we  last  met  in  the  "  Travellers'  Rest," 
and  the  gulf  that  separated  us  had  widened  even 
broader.  They  at  once  excused  themselves  for  not 
taking  my  hand  as  was  their  wont,  for  in  the  exercise  of 
their  priestly  office  they  had  to  handle  sacred  things. 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  them  nearly  naked,  as  it  is 
usual  for  priests  to  be  when  serving  their  god.  The  little 
cord  of  the  "  true  sons  of  Brahma  "  was  looped  round 
their  finely  shaped  bronzed  chests,  and  their  dilated 
eyes  had  a  far-away  look  which  I  had  not  seen  before. 

With  unvarying  courtesy  they  seated  me  in  a  place 
of  honour,  at  the  foot  of  a  copper  image  of  Vishnu, 
which  stood  opposite  the  door  of  the  sanctuary. 

The  courtyard  of  the  temple  was  blocked  with  flower 
sellers,  whose  baskets  were  filled  with  necklets  of  white 
and  yellow  jasmine,  and  with  strings  of  Bengal  roses, 
but  amidst  all  these  flowers  the  spectres  of  famine 
wandered  in  ever-increasing  numbers,  poor  skeletons 
with  fevered  eyes  and  of  earthly  hue. 

Processions  of  Brahmins  passed  before  me,  ascend- 
ing or  descending  the  steps  of  the  temple,  passing 
between  the  great  stone  elephants  that  reared  their 
trunks  towards  the  sky  from  the  topmost  flight  of 
steps.  All  the  men  were  clothed  in  white  and  wore 
sabres  at  their  waists,  while  from  their  chests  several 
rows  of  flowers  hung  down.  There  were  old  men  whose 
snowy  beards  were  brushed  back  after  the  fashion  of 
Rajput,  which  makes  them  look  like  old  white  cats  ; 
and  many  little  children,  whose  legs  were  hardly  long 
enough  to  let  them  climb  the  stairs,  but  whose  ex- 
pression,  however,  was  always  grave  and  concerned 
and  who  wore  the  tiaras  of  velvet  and  gold,  with  which 
their  heads  are  adorned,  with  much  solemnity  ;  the 
women  were  marvellous,  draped  in  the  antique  style 
in  coloured  muslins  whose  designs  were  worked  in 
gold,  or  in  black  muslins  adorned  with  silver  stars, 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  179 

A  hollow-sounding  music  reached  us  from  the  depths 
of  the  dark  and  impenetrable  temple,  and  sometimes 
the  noise  proceeding  from  a  gigantic  tom-tom  rumbled 
amidst  the  roofs  like  thunder.  Each  person,  before 
ascending,  stooped  down  to  kiss  the  lowest  step  and 
even  those  upon  the  topmost  stair  turned  round  to 
kiss  the  threshold  of  the  doorway  before  they  left  the 
temple's  holy  shade.  But  the  spectres  of  famine  were 
ever  at  hand,  discountenancing  the  gaily  dressed  throng 
with  their  ghastly  nudity.  Sometimes  they  at- 
tempted to  stop  the  worshippers  with  their  withered 
hands,  clinging  to  their  muslin  veils,  seeking  to  extort 
charity  with  gestures  that  were  brusque  and  sudden, 
like  the  hands  of  snatching  apes. 

Then  the  wind  rose,  as  it  did  each  evening  at  the 
same  hour.  It  brought,  however,  no  refreshing  cool- 
ness to  the  burning  city,  but  merely  a  haze  of  dust,  in 
which  the  sun  set  yellow  and  dull  as  the  sun  of  our 
northern  climes. 

In  spite  of  everything  the  festival  continued  in  the 
streets  till  nightfall.  People  threw  whole  handfuls  of 
coloured  and  perfumed  powder  at  each  other,  till  faces 
and  clothes  were  almost  covered,  and  sometimes  there 
were  seen  those  who  emerged  from  the  fray  with  one 
side  of  their  faces  bedabbled  with  violet,  blue,  or  red. 
All  the  white  robes  bore  the  imprint  of  hands  that  had 
been  dipped  into  dyes  of  brilliant  colours — the  impress 
of  five  fingers  stamped  in  rose,  in  yellow,  or  in  green. 


VII 
THE  ENCHANTED  WOOD  OF  ODEYPOURE 

Three  fakirs  live  in  this  enchanted  wood,  their 
thatched  shelter  standing  close  to  the  roadside  at  the 
foot  of  a  hill  which  mirrors  itself  in  a  tranquil  lake. 
Three  young  men  with  beautiful  regular  features, 
long-haired  and  nude,  powdered  from  head  to  foot 
with  dust  of  a  pale  gray  stone  colour. 

All  day  and  every  day,  at  no  matter  what  hour  one 


i8o  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

passes,  the  three  fakirs  are  there,  seated  under  the 
humble  shelter  which  is  open  on  all  sides.  Their  legs 
are  crossed  in  the  posture  of  Buddha,  and  they  sit 
motionless  on  the  ground,  in  front  of  the  waters  which 
reflect  the  mountains,  the  dismal  forests,  and  the  white 
palaces  of  the  King  of  Odeypoure. 

Directly  we  have  passed  through  the  great  pointed 
gates  that  lie  behind  the  city  the  silent  woods  com- 
mence, woods  which  climb  to  the  lofty  peaks  which 
surround  us,  so  that  they  may  join  on  to  the  distant 
forests  and  the  jungles  where  the  tigers  dwell. 

The  trees  are  of  medium  height,  and  the  bushes, 
with  their  slender  twigs,  are  like  our  own,  but  both 
trees  and  bushes  are  as  leafless  as  trees  and  bushes  are 
in  France  at  the  end  of  the  autumn.  And  yet  it  is 
springtime  here,  a  tropical  spring,  and  the  air  is  hot 
and  stifling.  Overhead  is  a  cloudless  and  unchanging 
sky  that  stretches  over  the  whole  of  India  just  as  it 
overhangs  these  forests.  The  weather  is  brilliantly 
fine,  and  so  it  has  been  for  three  years  past,  which 
is  the  reason  why  everything  is  dying. 

It  is  astonishing  how  lovely  and  calm  this  shady 
place  has  remained,  lying,  as  it  does,  outside  the  city 
gates.  All  the  life  seems  to  congregate  towards  the 
other  side  of  the  town,  and  scarcely  any  one  passes 
along  the  road  which  leads  in  front  of  the  three  fakirs 
who  sit  in  meditation  by  its  side. 

In  the  woods  there  are  wild  boars,  monkeys,  and  a 
quantity  of  birds,  flights  of  turtle-doves,  and  droves 
of  parrots.  Flocks  of  superb  peacocks  strut  up  and 
down  among  the  dead  trees,  under  the  grayish  bushes 
and  upon  the  ashy -coloured  soil.  We  see  them 
running  along  in  single  file  with  outstretched  tails, 
the  wondrous  sheen  of  which  looks  like  a  spurt  of 
green  and  incandescent  metal.  All  these  animals  are 
free  and  unrestrained,  yet  their  demeanour  is  not 
that  of  wild  animals  and  birds,  for  in  these  lands, 
where  they  are  never  slain  by  man,  the  idea  of  flight 
does  not  animate  them  as  it  does  at  home.  As  to  the 
tigers  that  live  on  the  other  slope  of  the  mountain, 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  181 

no  living  man  has  ever  seen  them  wandering  amidst 
the  thickets  of  this  enchanted  wood. 

The  first  glance  that  we  get  of  the  three  stone- 
coloured  men  who  are  seated  so  motionless  by  the 
roadside  skirting  the  edge  of  the  lake  is  one  that  fills 
us  with  the  vague  dread  of  something  supernatural. 
They  differ  from  statues  in  that  their  long  hair, 
moustaches,  and  eyebrows  are  black,  but  their  eyes 
are  so  strangely  fixed  that  we  cannot  be  certain. 

These  men  are  merely  fakir  novices  of  about  twenty 
years  of  age  ;  fastings  and  penances  have  not  yet 
altered  their  gracious  forms,  and  their  legs,  which 
after  a  while  will  be  withered  and  contracted  into  one 
fixed  position,  are  still  plump  and  almost  feminine. 
The  designs  in  red  that  are  inscribed  on  the  dust- 
covered  foreheads  in  some  way  resemble  those  on  the 
bedabbled  faces  of  clowns,  but  their  expression  is  so 
grave  that  we  never  think  of  making  the  comparison. 

Behind  them,  under  the  shelter  of  the  thatch,  we  can 
see  the  orderly  and  gleaming  rows  of  copper  vessels! 
that  serve  for  their  morning  ablutions  and  for  their 
frugal  meals.  The  dead  branches  stretching  above 
their  heads  are  the  chosen  resorts  of  birds.  Parrots, 
turtle-doves,  gorgeous  peacocks,  and  the  thousand 
feathered  songsters  that  have  been  robbed  of  their 
living  by  the  long  drought,  come  here  to  pick  up  the 
grains  of  rice  that  the  three  sages  have  scattered  on 
the  ground  for  them,  after  their  frugal  meal. 

The  wanderer  who  stops  to  speak  to  the  three  fakirs 
is  sometimes  invited  by  a  gesture  or  by  an  absent  smile 
to  seat  himself  under  the  shelter  of  their  roof,  but  as 
the  ground  has  been  swept  so  carefully  they  beg  their 
guests  to  remove  their  shoes  before  drawing  closer. 
Then  their  eyes  plunge  into  dreamland  again  and  one 
is  free  to  depart  at  will,  for  they  speak  no  more,  nor 
do  they  ever  seem  to  see. 

This  lake,  lying  amidst  the  woods,  belongs  to  the 
King  of  Odeypoure,  and  the  palaces  and  a  few  old 
white  temples  are  the  only  buildings  reflected  therein. 
On  the  two  islands  in  the  centre  there  are  more  palaces 


i82  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

and  walled  gardens,  but  everywhere  else  the  banks  are 
covered  by  an  interlacing  thicket  of  trees  and  shrubs. 
On  every  side  the  lake  is  shut  in  by  steep  and  lofty 
mountains,  whose  sides  are  clothed  by  dying  forests, 
though  we  sometimes  see  the  white  glitter  from  a  little 
citadel  of  olden  days,  or  the  reflection  from  some  tiny 
Brahmin  sanctuary  perched  on  a  jagged  summit,  far 
above  the  flights  of  soaring  eagles. 

Close  by  the  edge  of  the  water,  which  grows  lower 
every  day,  the  branches  are  still  tinged  with  green  : 
everywhere  else,  no  matter  where  we  may  look,  only 
the  tones  of  rusty  autumn  or  the  chill  grays  of  winter 
are  to  be  seen. 

To-day  I  saw  one  of  the  fakirs  move  for  the  first 
time.  I  had  gone  to  the  enchanted  wood  about  sun- 
set— at  the  hour  when  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke  always 
overhung  an  abandoned  house  belonging  to  the  Maha- 
rajah that  lay  on  the  opposite  shore.  It  was  not  smoke, 
however,  but  a  simple  whirlwind  of  dust  raised  by  the 
trampling  hoofs  of  wild  boars,  of  which  hundreds  come 
every  evening  to  scramble  for  the  maize  that  is  thrown 
from  one  of  the  upper  windows  by  order  of  the  King, 
since  the  dead  jungle  can  no  longer  sustain  them. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  fakirs  rose  up  and  went  to  look 
for  the  mirror,  powder,  and  carmine  that  were  in  the 
shelter  behind  him  ;  then,  after  having  again  assumed 
his  former  cross-legged  posture,  he  whitened  his  face 
and  carefully  painted  the  sign  of  Siva  on  his  forehead. 
No  living  thing  was  near,  save  the  peacocks  and  the 
turtle-doves,  which  had  begun  to  cluster  on  the  trees 
in  anticipation  of  their  evening  meal.  In  whose 
honour,  then,  can  he  have  made  this  evening  toilette  ? 

At  last,  however,  the  sound  of  horses  galloping 
quickly  through  the  trees  is  heard.  It  was  the  King 
who  passed  with  some  thirty  of  his  courtiers  on 
beautiful  horses,  whose  harness  flashed  with  a  thou- 
sand colours.  All  the  horsemen  were  clothed  in 
white,  and  long  robes  enwrapped  their  slender  forms. 
Their  beards  and  moustaches  were  worn  brushed 
upwards  towards  their  foreheads  after  the  fashion  of 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  183 

Odeypoure,  a  fashion  which  gives  a  cat-like  expression 
to  the  chiselled  bronze  features  that  are  at  the  same 
time  both  intellectual  and  manly. 

The  King  galloped  at  the  head  of  the  troop.  His 
beard  was  worn  like  the  beards  of  the  others,  but  a 
matchless  beauty  and  distinction  graced  his  features 
and  his  bearing. 

As  I  watched  them  disappearing  through  the  leafless 
glades  my  thoughts  were  carried  back  to  our  own 
middle  ages,  and  I  fancied  some  prince  or  duke 
returning  from  the  chase,  followed  by  his  train  of 
knights  and  barons  on  the  beautiful  evening  of  a 
century  that  had  long  since  passed  away. 

VIII 
A    VISIT   TO    A    RAJPUT    PRINCE 

The  stylishly  appointed  landau  which  by  order  of 
the  Maharajah  of  Odeypoure  has  fetched  me  from  the 
"  Rest  House "  gallops  up  sanded  slopes  bordered 
by  balustrades  and  clumps  of  rose  bushes.  We  are 
near  the  shore  of  the  lake  on  that  rock  from  which  the 
palaces  rise  in  a  clustering  amphitheatre.  Here  and 
there  marble  elephants  are  seen  emerging  from  the 
flowers  and  foliage.  As  we  sweep  up  the  steep  and 
sharply  winding  slopes,  pulled  by  two  powerful  and 
fiery  horses,  the  horizon  rapidly  enlarges  and  the 
panorama  of  the  enchanted  wood  and  the  blue  lake 
studded  with  its  island  palaces  unfolds  itself  before  us, 
but  it  seems  as  if  the  wall  of  forests  and  mountains, 
which  makes  such  a  mysterious  background  to  every- 
thing at  Odeypoure,  were  rising  with  us  too.  The 
Maharajah,  Prince  of  Meswar,  whose  palace  I  am  j 
about  to  visit,  is  descended  from  the  ancient  and  the 
most  powerful  of  the  royal  families  of  Rajput.  He  is^ 
one  of  the  survivors  of  the  "  dynasty  of  the  sun." 
Centuries  and  centuries  before  our  oldest  and  most 
princely  European  families  had  emerged  from  obscurity 
his  ancestors  had  levied  arms  to  conquer  kingdoms 
or  to  free  queens  who  had  been  led  into  captivity. 


1 84  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

Rama,  the  founder  of  the  "  dynasty  of  the  sun," 
the  hero  who  attained  divinity,  had,  as  we  are  told 
in  the  Ramayana,  two  sons,  the  elder  of  whom  es- 
tablished Lahore.  The  descendants  of  the  second 
extended  their  sway  over  the  people  of  Rajput  to- 
wards the  middle  of  the  second  century.  However, 
at  the  epoch  of  the  great  incursion  of  barbarians  from 
the  north  in  the  year  524  all  the  princes  of  the  family 
were  massacred,  the  queen  only  excepted,  she  being 
at  the  time  on  a  pilgrimage.  Finding  herself  pregnant, 
she  took  refuge  in  a  cave,  where  she  died  in  giving 
birth  to  a  son.  The  child  was  adopted  by  some  pious 
Brahmins,  in  whose  care  he  was  only  with  difficulty 
retained,  for  his  royal  blood  impelled  him  towards 
the  warlike  practices  of  the  Bhils  who  inhabited  the 
neighbouring  mountains.  These  soon  after  chose  him 
for  their  chief,  and  one  of  their  warriors,  after  cutting 
his  finger,  made  a  bloody  mark  on  the  young  man's 
forehead  in  token  of  his  sovereignty.  About  723  the 
descendants  of  the  cavern-cradled  king  established 
themselves  here  as  sovereigns,  and  since  that  time 
their  line  has  never  ceased  to  reign.  Even  to-day  the 
custom  of  marking  each  successive  king  on  the  fore- 
head is  still  observed,  and  the  bloody  seal  is  imprinted 
by  the  rough  hand  of  a  Bhil,  in  token  of  the  sovereign's 
rude  origin. 

The  landau  stops  in  an  inner  courtyard,  planted 
1  with  palm  and  cypress  trees,  and  here  a  white-robed 
officer  of  the  royal  household  receives  me.  As  is 
usual  in  India,  the  princely  establishment  consists  of 
several  palaces,  but  the  one  into  which  I  am  first 
shown  is  modern,  with  European  drawing-rooms, 
looking-glasses,  sideboards  laden  with  silver,  and 
billiard-rooms,  appointments  which  we  had  been  far 
from  expecting  to  see  in  so  indigenous  a  town. 

The  Maharajah,  however,  prefers  the  ancient  dwell- 
ing-place of  his  ancestors,  and  it  is  there  that  audience 
will  be  granted  to  me.  I  must  now  prepare  for  it. 

At  first  we  thread  our  way  through  a  number  of 
little  gardens  and  silent  passages,  then  suddenly,  after 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  185 

passing  under  a  tall  and  pointed  archway  with  doors 
of  wrought  copper,  we  come  upon  a  noisy  crowd  re- 
velling in  deafening  music.  We  find  ourselves  in  an 
1  immense  courtyard,  in  a  place  built  for  the  combats 
of  elephants,  a  site  overlooked  on  one  side  by  the 
majestic  white  fa$ade  of  the  old  palace,  with  its  ancient 
sculptures,  its  decorations  of  blue  tile,  and  its  golden 
sun,  whilst  on  the  other  side,  rows  of  stalls  are  ranged 
against  the  wall,  in  which  chained  elephants  are 
placidly  chewing  their  fodder.  In  the  middle  three 
or  four  hundred  men  of  savage  mien — Bhils — who 
have  come  from  the  mountains  for  the  festival  of 
their  god,  are  holding  sticks  which  they  strike  one 
against  the  other  in  the  manoeuvres  of  a  war  dance 
which  is  being  played  for  them  on  bagpipes,  horns, 
huge  tom-toms,  and  cymbals  of  bronze.  Hundreds  of 
women  are  leaning  over  a  terrace  watching  this  dance 
— a  wondrous  exhibition  of  beauties  with  dark  eyes 
and  splendid  bosoms  veiled  in  muslin. 

What  a  number  of  passages  have  still  to  be  traversed 
before  the  sovereign  is  reached  !  What  a  number  of 
courtyards,  where  great  scented  orange  trees  are 
flowering  between  arcades  of  white  marble !  How 
many  ante-chambers,  whose  recesses  are  littered  with 
slippers,  and  where  men,  armed  with  long  sabres,  are 
seated  in  every  corner  !  There  are  passages,  too, 
which  barely  allow  us  to  squeeze  by,  and  dark  little 
staircases  of  the  olden  times,  hewn  from  the  solid 
rock,  which  are  so  narrow,  steep,  and  slippery  as  to 
be  almost  alarming.  As  we  thread  our  way  through 
the  gloom  we  encounter  endless  successions  of  guards 
seated  amidst  the  slippers  that  trail  on  the  ground  in 
every  direction.  Often,  too,  horrible  divinities  glare 
at  us  from  their  hiding-places  as  we  pass  by.  At  last, 
after  having  clambered  to  a  great  height  through  the 
rocks  and  rooms  that  are  built  upon  the  rocks,  a  door 
is  reached  before  which  the  officer,  who  has  been 
guiding  me,  stops  respectfully.  Then,  after  saying  in 
a  low  voice  "  His  Majesty  is  here,"  he  retires  and 
leaves  me  to  enter  alone. 


186  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

I  am  in  a  white  gallery  with  marble  arches,  which 
overlooks  a  huge  white  terrace.  On  the  ground  is  a 
linen  cloth  of  snowy  whiteness.  There  are  no  attend- 
ants present,  and  in  the  whole  extent  of  this  fresh, 
airy,  and  spotless  little  desert  there  is  no  furniture 
save  two  gilt  chairs  that  are  placed  in  the  centre.  In 
the  figure  that  stands  there,  alone  and  upright  with 
outstretched  hands,  I  recognize  the  horseman  whom  I 
saw  the  other  evening,  the  one  for  whom  the  fakirs 
made  their  toilette.  Now,  however,  he  is  clothed  in  a 
simple  white  robe  with  a  necklace  of  sapphires. 

Now  that  we  have  seated  ourselves  with  becoming 
ceremony  on  the  light  gilt  chairs,  an  interpreter,  who 
has  entered  noiselessly,  places  himself  behind  me. 
Each  time  that  he  speaks  he  holds  a  napkin  of  white 
silk  before  his  mouth,  so  that  his  breath  may  not 
annoy  his  lord — a  useless  precaution,  however,  for  his 
teeth  are  white  and  his  breath  is  sweet. 

This  silent  prince,  so  rarely  accessible  to  strangers, 
possesses  both  charm  and  grace,  together  with  an  ex- 
quisite courtesy  that  is  tinged  with  a  certain  shyness, 
the  kind  of  timidity  that  I  have  sometimes  noticed  in 
very  great  aristocrats.  At  first  he  deigns  to  ask  if  I 
have  been  well  treated  in  his  country,  and  if  I  like  the 
horses  and  carriage  that  he  had  sent  for  me — the 
usual  trivialities  of  a  tentative  conversation  between 
persons  who  are  separated  from  each  other  by  differ- 
ence of  race  and  diversity  of  opinion.  Afterwards,  when 
the  conversation  turns  on  European  affairs  and  on  the 
countries  which  I  have  just  left,  and  on  Persia,  whither 
I  am  so  soon  to  go,  I  can  perceive  how  many  thoughts, 
that  would  be  curious  alike  to  both  of  us,  we  might 
interchange  did  not  so  many  barriers  stand  in  the  way. 

Now,  however,  some  one  comes  to  remind  the  prince 
that  this  is  the  hour  of  his  evening  ride  in  the  en- 
chanted forest  where  the  fakirs  dwell.  To-day  he 
proposes  to  ride  round  the  shores  of  the  lake  as  far  as 
the  house  where  the  wild  boars  assemble  daily. 
Serving-men  with  large  Oriental  parasols  were  already 
in  attendance,  so  that  he  might  be  sheltered  as  he 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  187 

passed  along  the  terraces  on  his  way  to  join  the  knights 
and  barons  who  are  even  now  waiting  in  the  saddle. 
Before  dismissing  me  he  is  kind  enough  to  give  orders 
that  the  unfinished  palace  which  he  is  building  shall 
be  shown,  and  that  a  boat  should  be  in  readiness  to 
take  me  to  the  island  palaces  of  the  olden  times. 

It  would  seem  then  that  even  in  these  days  of 
change  there  are  still  Indian  princes  who  plan  dwell- 
ings such  as  their  forefathers  dreamt  of  in  the  bygone 
days  of  splendour. 

The  new  palace  is  perched  loftily  on  a  flat  and 
circular  space  that  juts  out  upon  the  lake.  It  is  com- 
posed of  a  number  of  white  halls  and  white  kiosks, 
almost  covered  with  festoons,  and  traceries  of  stone 
and  marble,  so  placed  as  to  overlook  the  varied  aspects 
of  the  lake.  A  sumptuous  staircase,  lined  by  elephants 
of  stone,  leads  down  to  the  waters  which  lie  em- 
bosomed amidst  high  and  savage  mountains  and 
gloomy  virgin  forests.  Within,  mosaics  of  glass  and 
porcelain  deck  the  walls.  In  one  room  there  are 
sprays  of  roses,  each  flower  of  which  is  made  from 
porcelains  of  twenty  different  colours  ;  in  another 
room,  aquatic  plants,  water-lilies,  herons,  and  king- 
fishers. One  room  has  just  been  finished.  Here 
rose-coloured  lotus  flowers  wander  over  the  moss- 
green  walls  in  a  simple,  antique,  and  formal  design, 
which  reminds  us  of  what  we  call  "  the  new  art."  In 
the  middle  of  this  room  there  is  a  crystal  bedstead, 
with  satin  cushions  of  the  same  tone  of  green  as  the 
walls  and  velvet  mattresses  that  match  the  rosy 
colour  of  the  lotus  flowers.  I  step  into  the  boat  that 
is  waiting  for  me  near  an  old  Brahmin  temple  that 
lies  amidst  the  trees,  a  temple  so  dilapidated  that  it 
seems  ready  to  crumble  into  the  water  through  which 
we  row  towards  the  isles.  The  usual  evening  wind 
has  already  risen,  the  wind  that  daily  strews  the  land 
of  Rajput  with  dust  and  de^.th.  On  the  lake,  how- 
ever, it  becomes  fresh  and  pure  and  but  flecks  the 
waters  round  us  with  tiny  blue  waves. 

We  first  touch  the  smaller  of  the  two  islands.     The 


i88  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

palace  on  this  island  is  barely  one  hundred  years  old. 
How  secluded  and  shut  in  it  is  !     For  my  part,  I 
should  have  thought  that  it  was  sufficiently  isolated 
by  the  deep  waters  which  surround  it.     There  are 
little  gardens  surrounded  by  mosaic-covered  walls, 
now  overgrown  by  rank  weeds,  thickets  of  brambles, 
inextricable  tangles  of  vegetation,  and  great  tufted 
bunches  of  mallow  flowers.     There  are  labyrinths  of 
low,  dark  rooms,  decorated  with  mosaics  or  with  fast 
fading  paintings.     These  rooms  are  so  constructed  that 
freshness  and  shade  might  be  enjoyed  at  all  times  of 
the  day.     Here,  too,  the  kings  of  bygone  times  could 
meditate  before  an  everchanging  prospect,  inclosed 
and  melancholy  gardens,  wild  and  distant  horizons, 
the  forests  where  the  tigers  dwelt,  or  the  fairyland  of 
white  palaces  that  rose  on  the  opposite  shore.     Oh  ! 
who  can  say  what  strange  dramas  or  what  lingering 
agonies  these  little  rooms  have  seen,  these  little  de- 
serted rooms,  now  slowly  mouldering  in  the  damp 
emanations  of   the  lake  !     Sometimes  we  see  curios 
that  stand  in  dark  and  gloomy  niches  in  the  walls, 
trifles  that  came  from  Europe,  things  which  must 
have  been  valued  here  a  hundred  years  ago,   old- 
fashioned  porcelains,   Dresden  figurines  in  the  cos- 
tumes of  the  time  of  Louis  XVI,  artificial  flowers  in 
Empire  vases.  .  .  .  Who  were  the  queens  and  who  were 
the    young    princesses    who    received    these    fragile 
presents,  who  shut  them  up  so  carefully,  and  who 
have  passed  away  leaving  them  behind  ? 

The  palaces  of  the  larger  island,  which  we  now 
visit,  were  built  by  a  glorious  potentate  who  lived 
about  three  hundred  years  ago.  They  are  more 
extensive  and  elaborate,  but  even  in  a  more  advanced 
stage  of  ruin  than  those  on  the  other  island.  The 
huge  landing-place,  the  white  steps  of  which  are  partly 
submerged  in  the  water,  is  ornamented  by  great 
elephants  of  stone  that  seem  to  be  stationed  there  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  boats.  The  mournful  gardens 
are  as  much  shut  in  as  those  of  the  neighbouring 
island,  but  their  walls  are  more  elaborately  inlaid  with 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  189 

mosaics  and  much  more  richly  sculptured.  The  great 
branched  palm  of  the  South  is  found  here,  but  it  does 
not  grow  naturally,  and  it  can  only  be  seen  near  the 
abodes  of  princes.  The  air  is  deliciously  scented  by 
groves  of  orange  trees,  the  flowers  of  which  are  strewn 
like  a  coating  of  hoar-frost  over  the  ground  and  over 
the  dead  leaves  which  lie  thick  upon  it.  It  is  already 
late  as  we  reach  the  palace,  and  the  sun  has  sunk 
behind  the  steep  and  tall  mountains  that  enshroud 
the  lake  with  a  primitive  twilight.  Now  is  the  hour 
when  the  parrots  roost,  and  I  notice  that  they  have 
chosen  the  branches  of  these  jealously  guarded  orange 
trees  for  their  resting-place.  We  see  them  arriving 
in  flocks  from  the  enchanted  wood  in  little  green 
clouds,  clouds  of  a  green  more  vivid  than  that  of  the 
fading  leaves,  for  even  at  the  water's  edge  everything 
has  commenced  to  turn  yellow,  and  the  wintry  tints 
of  the  surrounding  forests  will  soon  be  universal.  The 
wind  that  bears  famine  and  drought  on  its  wings  blows 
ever  more  strongly,  and  amidst  the  ruins  of  this 
lonely  isle  the  evening  seems  instinct  with  an  almost 
menacing  melancholy. 

IX 
THE    BEAUTIFUL    ROSE-COLOURED    CITY 

I  have  journeyed  a  hundred  leagues  farther  north, 
but  since  leaving  Odeypoure  desert  has  followed  upon 
desert,  and  the  whole  land  seems  accursed.  The 
remains  of  what  were  once  villages,  jungles,  and 
cultivated  fields  have  disappeared  under  a  sad  and 
monotonous  winding-sheet  of  white-coloured  ash  that 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  strewn  there  by  some  immense 
volcano.  At  last,  after  passing  through  this  land  of 
desolation,  we  came  upon  a  city  which  seemed  full  of 
Oriental  glow  and  charm.  The  avenues  leading  to 
the  crenelated  walls  and  arched  gateways  of  the  city 
are  thronged  by  white-robed  cavaliers,  by  women 
wrapped  in  long  red  and  yellow  veils,  by  ox  carts, 
and  by  strings  of  camels  decked  in  gay  accoutrements. 


igo  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

Surely  the  times  of  plenty  could  not  show  a  more 
dazzling  display  of  life  and  colour  ! 

But  what  can  be  the  meaning  of  those  miserable 
heaps  of  rags  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  ramparts  ? 
There  are  human  shapes  hidden  under  them.  What 
can  all  these  people  be  doing  on  the  ground  ?  Are 
they  ill,  or  are  they  drunk  ?  Ah  !  these  are  heaps  of 
bones,  or  the  withered  and  mummified  carcasses  of 
the  dead.  No,  it  cannot  be  that,  for  there  are  some 
who  still  move,  their  eyelids  tremble  and  they  can  see, 
and  there  are  some  who  can  even  stand  on  the  totter- 
ing bones  that  serve  as  legs. 

After  we  have  passed  the  first  gate  another  is  seen, 
cut  through  an  inner  wall  which  is  painted  in  rose 
colour  up  to  its  jagged  crests,  a  bright  rose  colour  so 
regularly  flecked  with  white  flowers  as  to  resemble  a 
piece  of  chintz.  The  tatters  of  humanity  are  there 
also,  but  the  dark  forms  wallowing  in  the  dust  look 
more  frightful  close  to  the  charming  rose  colour  of  the 
flower-spangled  wall.  They  look  like  skeletons  with 
leather  overdrawn,  and  their  bones  stand  out  with 
horrible  precision.  Elbows  and  knee-caps  make  great 
swellings  like  the  knots  upon  a  stick,  and  the  thighs, 
which  have  only  one  bone,  are  thinner  than  the  legs, 
which  have  two.  Some  are  grouped  in  families,  but 
others  are  abandoned  and  alone  ;  some  lie  extended 
on  the  ground,  almost  at  the  point  of  death,  whilst  the 
rest  sit  huddled  in  crouching  attitudes  of  stupid  immo- 
bility, with  grinning  teeth  and  eyes  which  sparkle  with 
fever.  In  one  corner  a  fleshless  old  woman,  who  appears 
to  be  alone  in  the  world,  weeps  silently  upon  her  rags. 

What  an  enchanting  surprise  awaits  us  as  we  pass 
through  the  second  gate  and  behold  the  interior  of  the 
town  ! 

What  an  astonishing  and  kingly  caprice  it  must 
have  been  that  planned  a  whole  rose-coloured  city, 
where  all  the  houses,  ramparts,  palaces,  towers,  bal- 
conies and  temples  are  of  one  colour,  evenly  diapered 
with  similar  posies  of  white  flowers.  One  might  almost 
think  that  all  the  walls  had  been  hung  with  an  antique 


IN  FAMISHED   INDIA  191 

chintz  of  floral  design,  or  that  the  town  had  been  hewn 
out  of  onyx  in  the  style  of  the  old  cameos  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  It  is  so  different  from  anything 
that  we  have  seen  elsewhere,  and  the  whole  effect  is 
one  of  complete  and  charming  improbability. 

There  are  streets  laid  out  in  straight  lines,  some 
almost  a  mile  long  and  twice  as  broad  as  our  boule- 
vards. These  are  flanked  by  high  palaces,  the  facades 
of  which  display  an  endless  succession  of  Oriental 
fantasies.  I  have  never  seen  such  extravagant  luxury 
of  superposed  colonnades,  of  festooned  arches,  towers, 
windows,  and  balconies.  All,  too,  of  the  same  tint,  a 
rosy  tint  whose  colour  is  that  of  a  flower  or  of  an  old 
silk,  and  even  the  tiniest  moulding  or  the  tiniest 
arabesque  is  outlined  by  a  white  thread  graven  in  relief. 
It  almost  looks  as  if  a  delicate  tracery  of  white  lace  had 
been  nailed  over  the  pieces  of  sculpture.  On  the  flat 
surfaces,  however,  the  decoration  which  resembles 
chintz  with  old-fashioned  posies  is  again  to  be  seen. 

A  seething  crowd  fills  the  whole  length  of  the  streets 
with  a  dazzling  and  ever-changing  play  of  colour. 
Each  side  of  the  pavement  is  encumbered  by  mer- 
chants who  have  spread  out  their  wares  of  cloth, 
copper,  and  arms  on  the  ground  before  them.  Wan- 
dering amongst  the  crowd  are  busy  throngs  of  women, 
who  are  decked  in  muslins  emblazoned  with  all  manner 
of  fantastic  designs,  whose  naked  arms  are  encircled 
with  bracelets  which  go  right  up  to  their  shoulders. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street  there  is  an  unending 
procession  of  armed  horsemen  bestriding  gorgeous 
saddles,  of  heavy  carts  drawn  by  zebus  with  painted 
horns,  of  long  strings  of  camels,  and  of  elephants  with 
gilded  robes  whose  trunks  have  been  ornamented  with 
complicated  networks  of  coloured  patterns.  Drome- 
daries, on  which  two  people  ride  one  behind  the  other, 
also  pass  by  with  ambling  gait  and  outstretched  necks 
like  those  of  running  ostriches.  Nude  fakirs,  covered 
with  white  powder  from  head  to  foot,  walk  past,  and 
palanquins  and  chairs  that  are  borne  on  men's 
shoulders  are  carried  along ;  an  Oriental  fairyland 


192  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

parading  in  all  its  splendour  in  a  setting  of  rosy 
magnificence  inconceivable  in  its  beauty. 

Servants  lead  tamed  cheetahs  belonging  to  the  King 
through  the  streets.  These  are  led  on  slips  so  that 
they  may  become  accustomed  to  crowds.  They  wear 
little  embroidered  caps  tied  under  their  chins  with  a 
bow,  and  they  pace  along,  putting  down  each  velvet 
paw  with  infinite  precaution  as  though  stepping  over 
eggs  laid  on  the  ground.  .  .  .  For  greater  security 
they  are  also  held  by  their  ringed  tails,  and  four 
attendants  always  walk  behind.  But  there  are  also 
many  hideous  vagrants — graveyard  spectres  like 
those  lying  at  the  rampart  gates.  For  these  have 
actually  dared  to  enter  the  rose-coloured  city  and  to 
drag  their  skeletons  through  the  streets.  There  are 
more  of  them  than  I  should  have  thought  possible. 
Nor  are  those  who  wander  tottering  and  with  haggard 
eyes  through  the  streets  the  only  ones.  There  are 
horrible  heaps  of  rags  and  bones  lying  on  the  pave- 
ments hidden  amongst  the  gay  booths  of  the  mer- 
chants, and  people  have  to  step  aside  so  as  not  to  tread 
upon  them.  These  phantoms  are  peasants  who  used 
to  live  in  the  surrounding  districts.  They  have 
struggled  against  the  droughts  which  have  brought 
destruction  to  the  land,  and  their  long  agony  is  im- 
printed on  their  incredibly  emaciated  bodies.  Now  all 
is  over ;  their  cattle  have  died  because  there  was  no 
more  grass,  and  their  hides  have  been  sold  for  a  mere 
trifle.  The  fields  which  they  have  sown  are  only 
steppes  of  dusty  earth  where  nothing  can  grow,  and 
they  have  even  sold  their  rags  and  the  silver  rings 
that  they  used  to  wear  on  their  arms  and  ankles  so 
that  they  might  buy  food.  They  starved  for  months, 
till  at  last  famine  definitely  appeared,  hideous  famine 
which  filled  the  villages  with  the  reek  of  a  charnel- 
house. 

They  are  hungry  and  they  wish  to  eat,  that  is  why 
they  have  come  into  the  city.  They  thought  that 
people  would  take  pity  on  them,  and  would  not  let 
them  die,  and  they  had  heard  that  food  and  grain  were 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  193 

stored  here,  as  if  to  resist  a  siege  ;  they  had  heard,  too, 
that  every  one  in  the  city  had  something  to  eat. 

Even  now  carts  and  strings  of  camels  are  constantly 
bringing  sacks  or  rice  and  barley  that  the  King  has 
procured  from  distant  lands,  and  people  are  piling 
them  up  in  the  barns,  or  even  on  the  pavements,  in 
dread  of  the  famine  which  threatens  the  beautiful 
city  on  every  side. 

But  though  there  is  food  it  cannot  be  had  without 
money.  It  is  indeed  true  that  the  King  gives  food  to 
the  poor  who  dwell  in  his  capital,  but,  as  to  helping  the 
peasants  who  die  by  thousands  in  the  surrounding 
fields,  how  can  that  be  done  if  there  is  not  a  sufficiency  ? 
So  all  heads  are  turned  aside  from  the  poor  wretches 
who  wander  through  the  streets,  and  who  haunt  the 
places  where  people  eat,  still  hoping  that  a  few  grains 
of  rice  may  be  thrown  to  them,  till  at  length  the  time 
comes  when  they  must  lie  down  anywhere,  even  on  the 
stones  of  the  street,  to  wait  for  death's  deliverance. 

At  this  very  moment  they  are  piling  hundreds  of 
sacks,  which  the  camels  have  brought,  on  to  the  pave- 
ments :  room  cannot  be  found  in  the  barns — so  three 
starved  and  naked  children,  whose  ages  range  from 
five  to  ten  years,  must  be  driven  from  the  place  where 
they  had  sought  a  rest. 

A  woman  who  is  standing  by  tells  us  that  they  are 
three  brothers  and  that  their  parents,  who  brought 
them  here,  are  dead  (of  hunger,  I  suppose)  :  that  is 
why  they  are  here,  and  they  stay  because  they  have 
nowhere  else  to  go. 

The  woman  appears  to  see  nothing  unusual  in  all 
this,  yet  she  does  not  seem  heartless  or  unkind.  My 
God  1  what  sort  of  folk  are  these  ?  What  can  be  the 
material  from  which  the  souls  of  these  people  are 
fashioned  ? — people  who  would  not  kill  a  bird,  but 
who  feel  no  compunction  when  little  children  are  left 
to  die  upon  their  doorsteps  ? 

The  tiniest  of  the  three  children  seems  to  be  almost 
dead,  for  he  is  motionless  and  has  no  longer  strength 
enough  to  drive  away  the  flies  that  cling  to  his  closed 
13 


I94  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

eyelids  :  his  belly  is  so  empty  that  it  resembles  the 
carcass  of  an  animal  that  has  been  drawn  for  cooking, 
and  he  has  dragged  himself  along  the  ground  so  long 
that  at  last  his  hip  bones  have  rubbed  through  the  skin. 

But  they  must  move  on  elsewhere  so  that  there  may 
be  room  for  the  sacks  of  grain  that  have  been  brought 
here.  The  tallest  of  them  gets  up  and  takes  the  little 
child  tenderly  to  his  bosom,  and  after  giving  a  hand 
to  the  other  brother,  who  can  still  walk,  he  silently 
moves  away. 

The  eyes  of  the  little  one  open  for  a  moment.  Oh  ! 
what  a  look  of  unspeakable  anguish  is  written  on  the 
face  of  this  innocent  martyr  !  what  an  expression  of 
reproach,  of  astonishment,  of  surprise  that  any  one 
could  be  so  unhappy,  and  be  left  to  linger  in  such 
suffering  !  But  the  dying  eyes  are  soon  closed  ;  the 
flies  return  to  settle  there,  and  the  poor  little  head  falls 
back  on  the  wasted  shoulder  of  the  elder  brother. 

With  a  wonderful  look  of  resignation  and  childish 
dignity  the  small  elder  brother  totters  forward  with  his 
charges,  but  he  neither  murmurs  nor  sheds  a  tear,  for 
is  he  not  now  the  head  of  the  family  ?  Then  after 
having  made  sure  that  he  is  far  enough  off  not  to  be 
in  the  way,  he  lays  his  brothers  very  gently  on  the 
ground  and  stretches  himself  out  by  their  side. 

The  wonderful  luxury  of  the  city  attains  its  most 
curious  effects  in  the  open  space  from  which  the 
principal  streets  diverge.  There  the  pyramids  of  the 
Brahmin  temples  are  coloured  pink  up  to  their  ex- 
tremities, and,  rising  through  flights  of  black  crows 
into  the  dusky  sky,  give  us  the  impression  of  rosy  yew 
trees  dotted  with  flowers.  The  fa$ade  of  the  king's 
palace  is  also  rose,  overlaid  with  white  flowers  :  this 
building  even  surpasses  in  height  the  fronts  of  our 
cathedrals,  and  is  composed  of  an  endless  repetition 
of  kiosks  placed  one  above  the  other.  Each  kiosk  is 
like  the  one  below  it,  and  each  has  the  same  colonnades, 
the  same  lattice-work  and  the  same  complicated  domes, 
whilst  on  the  topmost  pinnacles  are  royal  standards 
whose  coloured  bannerets  flap  in  the  parching  wind. 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  195 

Rose  are  the  palaces,  rose  are  the  houses  lining  the 
streets  that  lead  on  all  sides  into  the  dusty  distances. 

In  the  central  square  the  crowds  are  more  animated 
and  more  noisy,  and  many  jewels  sparkle  amidst  the 
dazzling  diversities  of  colour  that  the  revellers  wear. 
The  spectres  of  famine  are  more  numerous,  too — 
especially  the  shadowy  forms  of  little  children  who  are 
drawn  hither  by  the  smell  of  the  rice-cakes  and  the 
sweets  of  honey  and  sugar  that  are  being  cooked  in 
the  middle  of  the  open  space.  Of  course,  no  one  gives 
them  away,  but  they  stay  on  all  the  same,  their  dilated 
eyes  sparkling  with  a  fevered  longing,  even  though 
they  can  hardly  stand  on  their  trembling  legs. 

And  the  invasion  of  these  hunger-smitten  ones  in- 
creases rapidly.  It  is  like  a  ghastly  tide  that  flows 
from  the  country  towards  the  town,  and  the  roads 
leading  across  the  plains  are  strewn  with  the  corpses 
of  those  who  have  died  before  reaching  the  city  gates. 

A  woman  has  just  stopped  to  beg  at  the  stall  of  a 
bracelet-seller,  who  is  even  now  eating  hot  and 
savoury  pancakes.  The  woman  is  a  mere  spectre,  who 
clasps  to  her  bony  bosom  and  withered  breasts  the 
skeleton  of  a  child.  No,  the  trader  will  give  her  no- 
thing ;  he  does  not  even  deign  to  look  at  her.  Then 
the  mother,  whose  breasts  are  dried  up  and  whose 
child  must  die,  flies  into  fury  and  the  cry  of  a  maddened 
she-wolf  hurls  itself  forth  through  her  unclenched 
teeth.  She  is  quite  young,  and  was  doubtless  beauti- 
ful ;  youth  still  glimmers  in  her  ravaged  cheeks,  indeed 
she  is  almost  a  child  and  can  hardly  have  seen  more 
than  sixteen  years.  But  at  last  she  understands  that 
no  one  will  take  pity  on  her  and  that  she  is  doomed. 
Then  her  despairing  wail  rises  into  the  yell  of  a 
hunted  beast  that  knows  that  its  pursuers  are  at  hand. 
Meanwhile  the  huge  and  pampered  elephants  walk 
past  with  heavy  tread,  munching  the  costly  forage 
which  has  been  brought  from  distant  lands. 

The  outcries  of  the  crows  which  swarm  in  thousands 
on  the  roofs  and  in  the  air  can  ever  be  heard  rising 
above  the  clamouring  of  the  crowd.  This  eternal  and 


196  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

perpetual  croaking,  that  dominates  all  other  Indian 
sounds,  here  swells  into  a  mighty  crescendo,  into  a 
scream  of  delirious  ecstasy,  for  the  times  of  famine, 
when  the  odour  of  death  is  rife  in  the  land,  are  the 
times  of  plenty  for  the  crows,  the  vultures,  and  the 
flies. 

It  is  now  time  to  feed  the  royal  crocodiles  that  live 
in  the  shadow  of  high-walled  gardens. 

The  kingly  palace  is  almost  a  world  in  itself,  with 
its  endless  dependencies,  its  stables  for  elephants  and 
for  horses.  In  order  to  reach  the  artificial  lake  where 
the  crocodiles  are  to  be  found,  we  must  pass  through 
many  doors  bristling  with  iron,  and  through  many 
courtyards  broad  as  those  of  the  Louvre.  All  these 
courtyards  are  flanked  by  sullen-looking  buildings 
whose  windows  are  barred  with  iron.  Naturally,  their 
walls  are  painted  in  rose  colour  and  scattered  over  with 
nosegays  of  white  flowers.  To-day  these  quarters  are 
crowded,  and  the  roll-call  is  being  read  out.  It  is 
pay-day,  and  soldiers  of  barbaric  aspect  and  superb 
bearing  are  waiting  with  standards  and  lances  in  their 
hands.  They  are  paid  in  heavy  coins  of  the  olden 
time,  in  round  pieces  of  silver  or  in  squares  of  bronze. 

We  pass  through  a  marble  hall,  with  arches  and 
columns  sculptured  into  arabesques.  Here  a  cloth  of 
purple  is  stretched  over  a  gigantic  loom,  and  dozens 
of  workmen  are  occupied  in  covering  the  surface  with 
raised  flowers  of  gold  embroidery.  This  is  only  a  new 
trapping  for  one  of  the  favourite  elephants. 

The  gardens,  by  dint  of  laborious  watering,  have 
been  kept  almost  green,  so  that  they  seem  a  wondrous 
oasis  in  the  midst  of  the  parched  land.  A  crested  wall, 
some  fifty  feet  in  height,  incloses  vast  and  park-like 
slopes  over  which  a  gentle  melancholy  broods.  There 
are  cypresses  and  palms  and  little  woods  of  orange 
trees  and  many  roses  that  load  the  air  with  fragrance. 
There  are  marble  seats  where  one  may  rest  in  the 
shade,  kiosks  of  marble,  built  for  the  pleasaunces  of 
bayaderes,  and  marble  basins  where  princes  may 
bathe.  There  are  peacocks  and  monkeys,  and  oc- 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  197 

casionally  the  furtive  muzzles  of  jackals  peer  out  from 
under  the  orange  trees. 

At  last  we  reach  the  formidable  walls  which  sur- 
round the  great  pond,  and  at  once  see  that  its  waters 
have  almost  disappeared  through  the  long  drought. 
Enormous  old  crocodiles,  that  look  like  rocks,  slumber 
in  the  mud.  Soon,  however,  a  white-haired  old  man 
advances  and  stations  himself  on  the  steps  leading 
down  to  the  water's  brink,  singing  as  he  walks  in  the 
high  falsetto  voice  of  a  muezzin  calling  to  prayer,  and 
as  he  sings  he  waves  his  arms  as  if  to  call  the  slumber- 
ing reptiles.  Then  the  crocodiles  awake,  and  their 
first  slow  and  indolent  movement  gives  way  to  a  fear- 
ful agility  and  suppleness  of  motion.  They  approach 
quickly,  swimming  across  the  pond,  accompanied  by 
great  greedy  tortoises  who  have  also  heard  the  call 
and  wish  to  be  fed  too.  All  now  form  a  circle  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  on  which  the  old  man  stands  with  his 
serving-men,  who  carry  baskets  of  meat.  The  livid 
and  viscous  jaws  now  distend  cavernously  in  readiness 
to  swallow  the  goat's  flesh,  the  legs  of  mutton,  and  the 
lungs  and  entrails  which  are  thrown  to  them. 

Yet  outside  in  the  streets  no  one,  with  muezzin's 
call,  summons  the  starving  to  come  and  be  fed.  Those 
who  have  just  arrived  still  wander  about  with  out- 
stretched hands,  tapping,  should  any  one  chance  to 
look  their  way,  upon  their  hollow  bellies.  The  rest, 
who  have  lost  all  hope,  lie  down  anywhere,  even  under 
the  feet  of  the  crowd  and  in  the  track  of  the  horses. 

A  French  stranger  has  ordered  his  carriage  to  stop 
at  a  crossing  where  two  of  the  avenues  of  rosy  palaces 
and  temples  join,  a  spot  much  thronged  by  merchants, 
horsemen,  and  women  in  gay  muslins.  Here  he 
alights  and  advances  towards  one  of  these  dreadful, 
inert  heaps  of  starving  human  beings  and  stoops  down 
to  place  pieces  of  money  into  their  lifeless  hands. 

Immediately  it  is  as  though  a  horde  of  mummies 
had  suddenly  risen  from  the  dead.  Heads  emerge 
from  the  rags  that  covered  the  heap,  and  withered  and 
bony  forms  rise  slowly  from  the  ground.  "  What ! 


ig8  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

He  is  giving  money  !  we  can  buy  something  to  eat !  " 
The  ghastly  resurrection  suddenly  extends  to  other 
heaps  lying  hidden  behind  the  piles  of  merchandise, 
the  crowds  and  the  furnaces  of  the  pastrycooks,  for 
they  seethe  and  stir  and  grovel  on  the  ground.  Then 
a  swarm  of  phantoms  advances  with  faces  of  dead  men, 
with  horrible,  grinning  teeth,  with  eyes  whose  lids 
have  been  eaten  away  by  the  flies,  with  breasts  that 
hang  like  empty  bags  on  their  hollow  chests,  and  with 
bones  which  rattle  as  they  walk.  Instantly  the 
stranger  is  encircled  by  these  spectres  of  the  charnel- 
house.  They  throng  round  him,  they  seize  on  his 
clothes,  and  try  to  snatch  the  money  from  his  hands 
with  finger-nails  which  look  like  claws.  And  all  the 
while  their  poor  pleading  eyes  seem  to  ask  pardon 
and  forgiveness  for  their  importunity. 

Then  silently  the  phantoms  melt  away.  One  of  the 
spectres  who  was  too  weak  to  stand  tottered  and  fell, 
causing  the  spectre  nearest  to  him  to  fall  also.  This 
one  in  his  fall  brought  others  to  the  ground,  but  as 
each  one  in  tumbling  over  clung  to  his  neighbour,  all 
gradually  collapsed,  fainting  and  exhausted,  into  the 
dust,  from  which  they  had  no  longer  strength  to  rise, 
like  a  troupe  of  marionettes  or  like  a  set  of  ninepins 
that  are  bowled  over. 

Now  the  sound  of  approaching  music  is  heard,  and 
I  can  see  an  agitated  crowd.  It  is  a  religious  procession 
that  has  been  sent  out  to  announce  that  a  festival  will 
be  held  on  the  morrow  in  the  Temple  of  Brahma. 
One  of  the  attendants,  whose  duty  it  is  to  keep  the 
road  clear,  notices  that  an  old  woman  has  fallen  on  her 
face  into  the  roadway,  so  he  picks  her  up  and  throws 
her  back  on  to  the  pavement  out  of  the  way,  where 
she  lies  bruised  and  groaning. 

The  passing  procession  is  one  of  great  beauty.  A 
black  elephant,  ornamented  with  designs  in  gold,  leads 
the  way  ;  behind  him  musicians  walk,  playing  a  solemn 
air  in  the  minor  mode  on  their  bagpipes  and  their 
copper  instruments. 

Then  four  gray  elephants  advance,  bearing  on  their 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  199 

backs  young  men  adorned  like  gods.  These  graceful 
youths  wear  tall  tiaras  on  their  heads,  and  throw  per- 
fumed and  coloured  powders  over  the  people  standing 
beneath  them.  These  powders  are  so  light  and  subtle 
that  it  almost  looks  as  if  they  were  scattering  clouds. 
Gradually,  too,  the  colours  of  green,  violet,  yellow, 
and  orange  settle  on  the  elephants  and  tinge  them  with 
strange  fantastic  tones.  The  joyous  youths  throw  the 
scented  dust  by  handfuls,  and  the  robes  and  turbans 
of  the  crowd  are  coloured  at  their  will.  Even  the 
little,  starving  children,  who  look  up  from  the  ground 
on  which  they  lie,  are  covered  with  the  sandal -scented 
powder,  and  often  their  eyes  are  filled,  for  the  motions 
of  their  enfeebled  hands  are  too  slow  to  shield  them. 

Now  the  day  suddenly  declines  and  a  universal 
pallor  seems  to  irradiate  from  the  rose-coloured  walls. 
Overhead  the  sky  is  blue,  but  the  air  is  so  charged  with 
dust  that  the  moon  looks  wan.  Flocks  of  black- 
winged  birds  swoop  down  to  roost,  and  crows  and 
pigeons  nestle  so  closely  together  on  the  cornices  that 
the  rosy  palaces  are  outlined  by  strings  of  sombre  hue. 
Vultures  and  eagles  still  swoop  in  wheeling  circles 
through  the  air,  and  the  monkeys,  who  live  freely  on  the 
house-tops,  grow  lively  as  the  night  comes,  and  chase 
each  other  with  nimble  feet  :  strange  little  shadows 
running  with  lifted  tails  along  the  edges  of  the  roofs. 

Below,  the  streets  grow  empty,  for  there  is  no 
night  life  in  Eastern  cities. 

One  of  the  tame  cheetahs,  who  is  on  her  way  back 
to  the  palace  to  sleep,  has  seated  herself  on  her 
haunches  near  the  corner  of  a  street.  Just  now  she  is 
on  her  best  behaviour  and  with  her  cap  all  awry  wears 
an  expression  of  well-fed  contentment.  Her  attend- 
ants have  seated  themselves  in  like  fashion  around 
her,  though  one  of  them  still  holds  her  by  the  tail. 
The  cheetah's  mystic  eyes  of  pale  green  jade  are  fixed 
on  some  of  the  starving  children  who  lie  panting  on 
the  ground,  only  a  few  steps  away  from  her. 

The  merchants  hasten  to  fold  up  their  many- 
coloured  stuffs  and  to  pack  their  plates,  vases,  and 


200  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

vessels  of  copper  into  baskets.  Then  they  retire  to 
their  houses,  leaving  more  heaps  of  starving  wretches, 
who  had  been  hidden  amidst  their  gay  merchandise, 
exposed  to  view.  Soon  these  will  be  the  only  human 
beings  to  be  seen,  and  during  the  night  they  will  be 
the  masters  of  the  pavement. 

Gradually  the  heaps  of  death-smitten  wretches  be- 
come more  clearly  denned,  and  they  are  more  numerous 
than  I  could  have  fancied.  The  square  becomes  de- 
serted, and  these  rigid  forms  and  hideous  heaps  of 
rags  will  soon  be  left  to  the  loneliness  of  the  night. 

In  the  deserted  country  outside  the  city  walls  all 
the  trees  swarm  with  life  in  this  twilight  hour.  Eagles, 
vultures,  and  splendid  peacocks  flock  there  in  troops, 
each  forming  a  little  colony  on  the  slender  and  leaf- 
less branches.  Gradually  their  outcry  ceases,  and  the 
stillness  is  only  broken  by  intermittent  calls  which 
soon  become  less  frequent.  The  complaining  voices 
of  the  peacocks  still  linger  in  the  evening  air  ;  then, 
as  night  comes  on,  the  mournful  cries  of  jackals  take 
up  the  song.  It  is  ten  o'clock,  a  late  hour  for  the  city 
whose  life  almost  ceases  with  the  day.  The  country 
around  has  become  exquisitely  silent.  A  mist  seems 
to  veil  the  distance,  but  it  is  only  the  dust  rising  from 
the  parched  sand.  The  pale  moonlight  glistens  on  the 
white  and  dusty  ground,  the  dead  trees,  and  thorny 
cactus  plants.  Night  has  brought  a  sudden  chill,  and 
we  seem  to  see  the  snows  of  winter.  How  cold  it  will 
be  for  the  poor  children  who  are  lying  naked  and 
starving  on  the  ground  !  The  silence  of  the  desert 
has  now  penetrated  within  the  walls,  and  nothing  can 
be  heard  but  the  rumbling  of  muffled  music  issuing 
from  the  depths  of  the  Brahmin  temples.  A  few 
white-robed  men  still  move  up  and  down  the  lofty 
staircases,  which  are  flanked  by  elephants  of  stone. 
No  one  else  can  be  seen,  and  the  streets  are  quite 
deserted — those  long,  straight  streets  that  seemed 
broader  and  larger  now  that  they  are  no  longer 
thronged  with  people  and  equipages.  The  beauty 
of  the  palaces,  and  their  fretted  windows,  seem  even 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  201 

more  imposing  in  the  calm  moonlight,  and  the  rose- 
coloured  city  is  still  rosy  in  the  whiteness  of  the  moon. 

But  the  black  and  sinister  heaps  are  still  there, 
those  horrible  piles  of  panting  rags,  those  starving 
herds  which  have  collapsed  by  the  side  of  the  sacks  of 
corn  that  have  been  piled  hastily  on  the  pavement, 
and  which  are  now  being  guarded  by  men  armed  with 
bludgeons. 

Now  we  are  able  to  see  many  niches  of  stone  that 
were  hidden  during  the  day  by  the  teeming  multitudes. 
Each  one  shelters  a  god,  maybe  the  elephant -headed 
Ganesa,  or  maybe  Siva,  the  king  of  Death,  but  each 
idol  is  decked  with  flowers,  and  each  has  his  little  lamp 
which  will  burn  till  dawn  comes. 

Soon  the  heaps  of  rags  become  transformed  into 
dark  shapeless  masses,  patches  of  black  which  befleck 
the  rosy  gray  of  the  enchanted  city ;  but  ever  and  anon 
a  cough  or  a  groan  may  be  heard,  and  sometimes  a 
leg  or  an  arm  protrudes  from  the  ragged  heap  and 
stretches  itself  quiveringly  into  the  air.  To  those 
who  lie  on  the  ground  what  matters  the  joyous  day, 
the  calm  night,  or  the  radiant  dawn  ?  No  one  will 
pity  them ;  they  have  lost  all  hope,  and  they  know 
that  their  weary  heads  must  remain  where  they  have 
fallen,  and  that  they  have  naught  to  expect  but  the 
last  pangs  which  will  end  all. 


THE   TERRACE   ON   WHICH   THE    COUNCILS   WERE 
HELD   BY   MOONLIGHT 

The  pale,  full  moon  that  hangs  in  the  twilight  sky 
has  not  yet  commenced  to  shed  its  wan  light  over  the 
masses  of  ruins  that  stretch  out  beneath  my  feet,  and 
though  the  sun  has  sunk  behind  the  mountains  more 
than  an  hour  ago,  these  ruins  are  still  irradiated  by  its 
yellow  glow.  I  am  stationed  on  the  lofty  terraces  of 
the  dwelling  of  the  ancient  kings,  a  sort  of  formidable 
and  unapproachable  eyrie  standing  in  the  midst  of 
a  great  abandoned  town.  Once  it  was  filled  with 


202  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

priceless  treasures,  but  now  it  is  empty,  save  for  the 
few  serving-men  who  have  charge  of  it. 

I  am  already  at  a  great  height,  and  if  I  lean  over 
the  luxuriantly  carved  granite  slabs  that  serve  as 
balustrades  to  these  terraces,  I  overlook  abysses,  at 
the  bottom  of  which  lie  the  remains  of  houses,  temples, 
mosques,  and  other  splendours.  I  am  already  at  a 
great  height,  and  yet  I  am  overlooked  on  all  sides,  for 
the  rocks  on  which  the  palace  is  built  stand  encircled 
by  mountains  that  are  still  more  lofty.  Around  me 
are  great  pointed  peaks  of  reddish  stone  rising  almost 
vertically  into  the  air,  whose  topmost  summits  are 
crested  by  ramparts,  the  jagged  edges  of  which  are 
outlined  against  the  yellow  sky.  The  towering  wall  is 
one  of  those  ancient  works  whose  audacity  and 
enormity  fill  us  with  perplexity,  for  it  is  built  of  huge 
blocks  poised  on  almost  inaccessible  mountain  peaks, 
and  it  incloses  a  circle  of  several  miles.  It  seems,  too, 
to  rise  so  loftily  and  with  such  confidence  into  the  air 
that  I  can  hardly  look  at  it  without  a  feeling  of  giddi- 
ness. Surely  the  people  of  olden  times  could  hardly 
have  imagined  a  more  wonderful  defence  for  the  now 
decayed  city  and  the  palace  where  I  am  standing,  for 
they  have  transformed  the  summits  of  the  whole 
encircling  chain  of  mountains  into  one  huge  fortress. 
And  there  is  but  one  entrance  into  the  forbidden  circle, 
a  sort  of  natural  cleft,  through  which  I  can  see  distant 
deserts  that  look  as  if  they  had  been  ravaged  by  fire. 

The  sun  was  declining  as  I  set  out  for  the  ancient 
capital  of  Amber,  whose  ruins  now  lie  beneath  my 
feet,  a  capital  replaced  nearly  two  centuries  ago  by  the 
town  of  Jeypore,  which  I  have  lately  quitted.  I  was 
accompanied  by  guides  and  horses,  placed  at  my  dis- 
posal by  the  Maharajah  of  the  beautiful  rosy  city,  the 
successor  of  the  kings  who  formerly  inhabited  this 
palace  of  Amber,  on  whose  terraces  I  now  stand.  I  had 
hastened  to  make  my  escape  from  the  fairy  splendours 
and  the  Dantesque  horrors  of  Jeypore,  and  was  glad  to 
reach  the  open  plains,  where  at  least  all  the  agonies 
would  be  over  and  the  silence  of  death  would  reign. 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  203 

Yet  I  knew  through  what  regions  of  terror  I  should 
have  to  pass  directly  I  left  the  rampart  gates  :  it  would 
be  like  a  battlefield  over  which  a  conquering  enemy 
had  long  since  swept.  Withered  corpses  would  lie  in 
the  parching  sun,  and  these  corpses  would  breathe, 
and  some  even  would  be  able  to  rise  and  follow  me  or 
seize  me  with  their  poor  bony  hands  in  supreme  and 
despairing  appeal. 

Yes,  indeed,  I  found  all  that  awaiting  me. 

Amongst  the  dreadful  heaps  of  bones  and  rags  were 
many  old  women  whose  descendants  had  probably 
perished  of  hunger  :  abandoned  grandmothers  who 
lay  there,  calmly  waiting  for  their  turn  to  come. 
They  did  not  beg,  nor  even  move,  though  their  great 
eyes  expressed  an  infinitude  of  despair.  Above  their 
heads  multitudes  of  crows,  perched  on  the  branches 
of  the  dead  trees,  were  keeping  anxious  watch  until 
the  time  should  come. 

But  children  were  even  more  numerous  than  on  the 
previous  days.  Oh !  the  little  faces  that  seemed 
astonished  at  so  much  misery  and  destitution,  and 
that  looked  at  us  so  appealingly  from  the  ground. 
We  got  down  and  stopped  before  some  of  the  most 
emaciated,  though  we  could  not  stop  before  them  all, 
for  they  were  legion.  Poor,  little,  weary  heads, 
attached  to  skeletons  that  could  no  longer  support 
them.  We  lifted  them  up  gently,  but  they  fell  back 
confidingly  into  our  arms,  and  the  eyes  closed  as  if 
they  would  sleep  under  our  protection.  Sometimes 
we  see  that  the  succour  we  have  brought  comes  too 
late,  but  often  the  tiny  spectres  get  up  and  take  the 
piece  of  money  that  we  have  given  them  to  the 
merchants  who  sell  rice. 

My  God  !  It  would  cost  so  little  to  keep  these 
infants  from  starvation  !  The  frugal  nourishment  of 
an  Indian  costs  about  three  half-pence  a  day. 

After  issuing  from  the  rosy  gates  we  had  to  pass 
through  two  miles  of  ruins  before  the  open  country 
was  reached.  The  gardens  that  adjoined  the  road 
were  filled  with  dead  trees  and  with  interminable  suites 


204  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

of  cupolas  and  carved  stone  kiosks,  now  only  in- 
habited by  monkeys,  crows,  and  vultures.  The  out- 
skirts of  all  the  towns  of  this  country  resemble  each 
other  in  that  they  are  crowded  with  burying-places 
and  with  vast  relics  of  former  civilizations. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  there  are  no  signs  of  cultiva- 
tion, and  that  no  living  person  can  be  seen  in  the 
villages,  which  swarm  with  flies. 

When  at  last  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountains, 
it  seemed  as  if  the  regions  of  reddish  stone  in  which 
we  found  ourselves  were  heated  by  some  artificial 
means.  Even  in  the  shade  each  gust  of  dry  and  dusty 
wind  seemed  like  a  breath  of  flame.  The  only  vegeta- 
tion of  this  neighbourhood  consisted  of  great  plants 
of  dead  cactus.  These  still  remained  standing,  and  all 
the  surrounding  rocks  bristled  with  their  thorny  spears. 
My  two  guides  rode  on  horseback  with  bucklers  by  their 
sides,  carrying  their  lances  erect,  just  as  the  soldiers  of 
Bahadur  or  Aktar  may  have  done  in  the  olden  times. 

The  declining  rays  of  the  evening  sun  were  flashing 
in  our  eyes  as  we  at  last  saw  the  narrow  cleft  which 
gives  access  to  the  inclosed  valley  of  Amber.  A  for- 
midable door  barred  the  only  entrance,  but,  when  we 
had  passed  through  it,  the  ancient  capital  lay  before  us. 

We  ascended  by  paved  slopes,  on  which  our  horses 
could  scarcely  find  foothold,  to  that  kingly  palace  of 
stone  and  marble,  so  proudly  enthroned  on  the  rocks 
that  overlook  the  other  ruins. 

Close  by  the  entry,  near  one  of  the  first  windings  of 
the  ascending  road,  we  came  upon  a  black  and  evil- 
looking  temple,  the  floor  of  which  was  stained  with 
pools  of  blood,  and  which  reeked  with  the  stench 
of  a  slaughter-house.  In  a  niche  at  the  back,  the  fearful 
Dourga  lives.  She  is  quite  little  and  almost  shapeless, 
and  has  the  look  of  a  malevolent  gnome  cowering 
under  a  heap  of  red  rags.  At  her  feet  lies  a  tom-tom, 
almost  as  large  as  a  tower.  For  centuries  past  a  goat 
has  been  slaughtered  here  each  morning  at  daybreak 
to  the  sound  of  the  enormous  tom-tom.  Then  the 
priests  offer  the  warm  blood  to  the  goddess  in  a  cup 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  205 

of  bronze,  and  place  the  horned  head  before  her  on  a 
plate.  How  can  the  goddess  have  slipped  into  the 
Brahmin  Pantheon  even  under  the  title  of  Spouse 
of  the  God  of  Death,  this  Dourga,  this  fearful  Kali, 
who  is  so  greedy  of  blood  that  even  human  sacrifices 
were  formerly  offered  to  her  in  the  very  land  where  for 
ages  all  slaughter  has  been  forbidden  ? 

Where  can  she  have  come  from  with  her  red  cloak, 
from  what  dark  ages,  and  from  what  gloomy  night  ? 

At  different  points  on  our  route,  heavily  studded 
bronze  gates  have  been  thrown  open  for  us,  but  at  last 
we  had  to  leave  our  horses  and  continue  our  ascent  on 
foot,  through  courtyards  and  gardens  and  winding 
staircases.  We  pass  through  marble  halls,  whose 
thickset  pillars  are  decorated  with  tiny  designs  of 
barbaric  taste.  The  vaulted  arches  were  once  clothed 
with  glittering  mosaics,  and  patches  of  shining  look- 
ing-glass still  shimmer  under  the  damp  incrustations 
that  make  the  walls  resemble  the  sides  of  a  stalactite 
cave.  The  doors,  too,  were  of  sandal  wood  inlaid  with 
ivory.  As  we  climb  higher  we  see  piscines  which  still 
contain  a  little  water,  and  there  are  baths  hollowed  out 
of  the  rock  in  which  the  ladies  of  the  harem  used  to 
bathe.  In  the  central  space  there  is  a  cloistered,  hang- 
ing garden,  from  which  the  rooms  of  the  queens, 
princesses,  and  beauties  of  former  days  opened  out. 
As  I  passed  through  on  my  way  towards  the  topmost 
terraces,  the  air  was  scented  with  the  perfume  of 
ancient  orange  trees,  but  the  old  guardian  complained 
bitterly  of  the  monkeys  who  now  seemed  to  think 
themselves  masters  of  the  place,  and  were  even  bold 
enough  to  gather  the  oranges. 

Now  that  I  had  reached  the  topmost  terraces,  I 
waited  for  the  night  to  come.  The  ancient  kings  had 
built  these  places  and  surrounded  them  by  rich  balus- 
trades so  that  they  might  give  audiences  or  hold 
councils  there  by  moonlight,  and  I  had  wished  to  see 
these  terraces  at  their  allotted  hour,  under  the  moon- 
light which  will  soon  pour  down  upon  them. 

The  eagles,  vultures,   peacocks,  turtle-doves,   and 


206  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

swallows  have  now  retired  for  the  night,  and  the 
abandoned  palace  seems  doubly  abandoned  in  the 
pervading  silence.  The  sun  has  been  hidden  from  me 
for  a  long  time  by  the  lofty  mountains,  but  it  must 
have  set  by  now,  for  on  the  terrace  below  me  I  can 
see  the  Mussulman  guardians,  who  ever  wait  for  the 
holy  hour  of  Moghreb,  turn  towards  Mecca,  and  say 
their  evening  prayers. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  hollow  sound  reaches  me  from 
the  blood-stained  temple.  It  is  the  Brahmin  hour  of 
prayer  also,  and  the  tom-tom  commences  to  roar,  the 
tom-tom  of  the  witch-like  goddess  with  the  scarlet  cloak. 

These  heavy  and  resounding  blows  are  but  the  pre- 
lude of,  and  signal  for,  an  orgy  of  savage  sounds. 
Groaning  bagpipes  and  iron  cymbals  join  in,  and  a 
horn  howls  unceasingly  on  two  ever-repeated  notes, 
which  swell  and  fall  and  become  blurred  in  their 
passage  through  the  hollow  and  empty  rooms  on  which 
these  terraces  are  built.  Suddenly  an  answering  peal 
of  bells  floats  through  the  air.  It  is  the  little  temple 
of  Siva  whence  this  insistent  ringing  comes,  a  little 
chapel  perched  on  the  top  of  the  pointed  peaks  which 
surround  me,  a  temple  leaning  against  the  lofty  wall 
whose  crests  stand  out  against  the  evening  sky  like 
the  teeth  of  a  black  comb. 

I  had  not  expected  to  hear  so  much  clamour  amidst 
these  ruins,  but  in  India  the  destruction  of  a  town 
and  the  decay  of  its  sanctuaries  do  not  prevent  the 
performance  of  the  sacred  rites,  and  the  gods  still 
continue  to  receive  service  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
deserted  regions. 

For  the  last  few  moments  my  eyes  have  been  turned 
towards  the  little  temple  from  which  the  pealing  bells 
resound,  and  when  I  next  look  towards  the  ground,  I 
am  almost  shocked  to  see  my  shadow  suddenly  and 
sharply  defined  there.  Instinctively  I  turn  to  see 
whether  some  one  has  not  lighted  a  strangely  bright 
lamp  behind  me,  or  whether  an  electric  search-light 
has  not  enveloped  me  in  its  wan  rays.  But  no,  it  is 
the  great  full  moon,  the  moon  of  royal  audiences  that 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  207 

I  had  quite  forgotten,  but  which  has  already  com- 
menced its  nightly  offices,  almost  without  any  interven- 
ing twilight,  so  quickly  in  this  country  do  the  days 
make  haste  to  die. 

Other  shadows,  the  shadows  of  motionless  things, 
are  now  thrown  everywhere  in  alarming  contrast  with 
spectral  brightness,  but  the  terrace  of  the  moonlight 
audiences  is  bathed  in  the  full  white  glory  of  the  moon. 

I  shall  descend  when  the  clanging  music  has  ceased, 
for  I  should  hardly  care  to  traverse  so  many  narrow 
staircases  and  passages  whilst  it  lasts,  or  to  walk  alone 
at  this  late  hour  through  the  palatial  halls  that  must 
now  be  given  up  to  wraiths  and  monkeys. 

But  the  music  lasts  a  long  while,  so  long  that  I  can 
count  the  kindling  stars. 

How  commanding  and  yet  how  hidden  the  place  is, 
and  what  kings  of  phantasy  these  sovereigns  must 
have  been  who  planned  these  moonlight  terraces ! 

In  about  half  an  hour  the  sounds  of  the  tom-toms 
and  the  howls  of  the  sacred  horns  become  less  deafen- 
ing and  less  frequent.  Their  vibrations  linger  and 
grow  feeble,  and  their  outbursts  of  renewed  and  des- 
perate frenzy  are  of  ever-diminishing  duration.  I  feel 
that  the  sounds  express  a  lingering  agony,  and  that 
they  are  dying  of  exhaustion.  At  last  silence  comes 
back  again,  and  from  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  where 
the  ruins  of  Amber  lie,  I  can  hear  the  melancholy 
flute-like  voice  of  wandering  jackals. 

It  is  not  really  dark  in  the  stairways  and  the  low 
halls  of  the  palace  as  I  make  my  way  down.  Every- 
thing seems  bathed  in  moonbeams  of  bluish  whiteness, 
and  silvery  rays  enter  through  festooned  windows  and 
cast  the  charming  outlines  of  the  pointed  arches  on  to 
the  pavement :  the  faded  mosaics  on  the  walls  glow 
with  new  life,  so  that  the  halls  seem  studded  with  gems 
or  sparkling  drops  of  water.  As  I  passed  through  the 
gardens,  now  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  the 
upper  branches  of  the  orange  trees  became  all  alive 
with  the  agitated  and  noisy  awakening  of  the  monkeys. 

My  guides  await  me  at  the  lower  doors,  where,  after 


208  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

the  freshness  of  the  terraces,  the  air  seems  hot  and 
stifling.  They  are  already  in  the  saddle,  and  carry 
their  lances  in  their  hands.  We  trot  tranquilly 
through  the  night  towards  the  city  of  Jeypore,  which 
I  am  leaving  for  good  to-morrow. 

I  have  decided  to  avoid  Beckanire,  a  town  lying  a 
hundred  leagues  farther  north.  I  had  intended  to 
visit  it,  but  I  have  heard  that  the  horrors  of  the  famine 
culminate  there,  and  that  the  streets  are  lined  with 
corpses.  Alas  !  No  !  I  have  seen  enough.  So  I 
shall  take  the  road  that  leads  back  to  less  desolate 
lands,  to  places  where,  being  near  to  the  sea  of  Bengal, 
life  can  still  thrive. 

XI 
THE  TOWN  OF  FEETTED  STONE 

My  last  halting-place  in  the  land  of  famine  was  the 
city  of  the  King  of  Gwalior,  a  city  which  is  entirely 
overhung  with  lace-like  carvings,  and  is  renowned 
throughout  the  whole  of  India  for  the  imaginative 
luxury  of  its  sculptured  stonework.  It  is  almost  too 
pretty,  and  the  complicated  perforations  look  laboured. 
The  houses  seem  to  resemble  scene-paintings,  punched 
out  of  fine  cardboard,  but  they  are  made  of  stone,  and 
their  delicate  traceries  are  by  no  means  fragile.  The 
thousands  of  little  columns  surrounding  the  festooned 
doors  of  the  windows,  from  which  stalactites  hang 
down,  have  capitals  of  foliage,  whilst  their  bases  seem 
to  spring  from  the  heart  of  a  flower.  The  streets  are 
overhung  by  a  prodigious  number  of  loggias  and 
balconies,  rising  one  above  the  other,  all  fashioned 
from  stone  from  the  neighbouring  quarries.  Should 
any  one  desire  to  make  a  trellis  for  their  balcony  or  a 
screen  behind  which  beautiful  ladies  may  sit  unseen, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  take  a  huge  slab  of  stone,  sawn 
to  the  thinness  of  a  plank,  and  then  to  cut  out 
arabesques  of  exquisite  refinement.  Once  in  its 
place,  the  slab  resembles  a  fragile  piece  of  wood-carving 
or  even  imitates  the  delicacy  of  paper.  Then  it  is 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  209 

coated  with  snowy  whitewash,  and  the  surrounding 
walls  are  painted  with  gaudy  representations  of  flowers 
and  processions  of  gods  or  of  elephants. 

The  nightmare  of  famine  is  almost  forgotten  directly 
one  enters  this  fairy  city,  in  spite  of  the  surrounding 
desolation  which  draws  nearer  every  day.  Here  the 
people  are  rich  enough  to  buy  grain  and  there  is  still 
water  enough  to  keep  the  gardens  green.  Baskets  of 
roses  are  still  on  sale  in  the  open  places,  waiting  for 
people  to  buy  them  for  their  scent,  or  for  the  adorn- 
ment of  their  persons. 

We  are  in  a  Brahmin  town,  yet  turbans  are  as 
plentiful  as  in  the  land  of  Mahomet.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  they  are  of  a  special  shape,  being  always 
wound  tightly  round  a  rigid  framework,  but  there  are 
endless  varieties  of  form  and  colour  dictated  by  the 
position  and  caste  of  the  wearer.  Some  resemble 
a  sea-shell,  others  the  hats  of  the  Louis  XI  period ; 
here  are  some  which  remind  us  of  the  caps  worn  by 
women  in  former  days,  and  we  even  see  some  which 
have  two  horns  and  long  turned-up  flaps.  They  are 
made  of  silk,  and  their  colours  are  scarlet,  pink, 
sulphur  yellow,  and  celadon  green,  and,  just  as  at 
Hyderabad,  their  fresh  hues  are  thrown  into  relief  by 
the  whiteness  of  the  crowds  and  of  the  streets.  The 
sign  of  Siva,  carefully  painted  on  the  foreheads  of  the 
men,  is  here  transformed  into  the  shape  of  a  white 
butterfly  with  wings  extending  from  either  side  of  a 
red  ball.  The  fork  of  Vishnu,  however,  remains  just 
as  it  was  in  the  south  of  Hindustan. 

This  is  a  town  of  horsemen,  for  they  can  be  seen 
everywhere  galloping  on  prancing  steeds  decked  with 
golden  harness.  Many  people  ride  on  elephants,  and 
strings  of  camels  walk  past  in  slow  procession.  There 
is  no  lack  of  mules,  nor  of  little  asses  whose  gray  skins 
are  faintly  tinged  with  pink. 

The  carriages  are  very  varied  in  kind,  and  all  are 
extravagant.  There  are  some  tiny  ones  plying  for 
hire  which  are  made  of  glittering  copper,  with  tops 
fashioned  like  pagodas.  These  are  harnessed  close  up 

14 


2io  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

to  the  horse's  tail,  and  are  constantly  shaken  by  the 
trotting.  Then  there  are  others  which  roll  along  with 
slow  and  solemn  majesty,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  huge  and 
sleepy  zebus,  yoked  so  far  apart  from  each  other  that 
the  whole  road  is  taken  up.  These  are  invariably 
shaped  like  the  arched  prow  of  a  ship,  but  the  prow 
is  so  narrow  that  the  people  in  the  carriage  have  to 
sit  cross-legged,  one  behind  the  other.  The  largest 
carriages  shelter  mysterious  and  hidden  beauties. 
These  are  shaped  like  a  monstrous  egg,  and  their 
interiors  are  jealously  shielded  from  view  by  red 
curtains.  Sometimes  one  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  a 
beautiful,  beringed  and  amber  arm  reposing  amidst  the 
draperies  of  these  slowly  moving  vehicles,  or  perhaps 
even  the  vision  of  a  naked  foot  loaded  with  many 
rings.  Then  there  are  litters  of  every  description. 
On  some,  young  dandies,  whose  eyes  are  extended  by 
paint  and  whose  ears  sparkle  with  diamonds,  are 
being  carried,  dressed  in  robes  of  mauve  or  orange  silk  ; 
in  others,  nabobs,  severely  garbed  in  mantles  of  purple 
or  violet  velvet,  are  being  borne  along,  their  beards 
spread  out  in  fan-like  waves  over  the  velvet  folds  of 
their  garments,  beards  which  are  generally  snowy 
white,  but  which  sometimes  have  been  tinted  with 
bright  vermilion  dyes. 

Many  salutes  are  exchanged  in  the  pretty  streets, 
whose  houses  look  as  if  they  were  made  of  white  stone 
tulle.  People  are  very  courtly  in  Gwalior. 

It  is  incontestable  that  the  beauty  of  the  Aryan  race 
reaches  its  highest  development  of  perfection  and  re- 
finement amongst  the  upper  classes  in  this  country, 
where  the  pale  skins  are  scarcely  darker  than  those  of 
the  European  races.  Oh  !  the  wonderful  eyes  and  the 
almost  too  exquisite  and  too  regular  beauty  of  the 
women  who  walk  past  in  groups  of  dazzling  colour, 
each  one  draped  like  a  Roman  matron  in  tinted  and 
transparent  muslins. 

How  remote  is  the  India  where  the  great  palms 
grow,  and  where  a  bronze-coloured  race  walks  about, 
with  no  other  adornment  than  their  flowing  hair. 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  211 

The  muslins  of  Rajputan,  that  enwrap  these  people 
from  head  to  foot,  are,  by  intention,  archaic  in  design, 
and  the  colours  are  always  thrown  on  in  patches  and 
blurred  forms  which  have  no  distinct  outline.  Here  a 
woman  has  chosen  a  moss-green  fabric  strewn  with 
rose-coloured  spots  for  her  veil,  another  who  walks  by 
her  side  is  in  golden  yellow  shaded  with  blues  which 
alternate  between  tones  of  lapis  lazuli  and  turquoise, 
whilst  another  is  in  lilac  stained  with  a  marbling  of 
bright  orange.  The  lightness  of  these  tissues,  the  floods 
of  sunbeams,  and  the  transparency  of  the  "shadows 
cause  all  these  colours  to  flash  prismatically.  And 
sometimes  in  the  midst  of  all  these  flower  and  morning 
hues,  another  beauty  passes,  dressed  like  the  queen  of 
the  night,  bringing  the  marvellous  contrast  of  black, 
black  veils,  zigzagged  over  with  long  stripes  of  silver. 

Colours  exercise  such  a  fascination  over  the  people 
of  Gwalior  that  there  are  whole  streets  whose  inhabit- 
ants are  solely  occupied  in  dyeing  muslins  and  tinting 
them  with  tones  in  harmonious  relief.  This  charming 
art  is  exercised  quite  openly,  and  it  is  usual  for  the 
people  who  pass  by  to  stop  and  express  their  opinions 
on  the  work  in  progress.  When  a  piece  is  finished,  it 
is  hung  over  one  of  the  carved  balconies,  or  given  to 
two  little  children  to  carry  about  in  the  sunlight  till  it 
is  dry.  The  dyer's  quarters  seem  to  be  in  a  state  of 
constant  festivity  with  these  gay  and  airy  stuffs  thrown 
like  veils  over  the  houses,  and  others  that  float  in  the 
air  like  waving  flags. 

Many  bridal  processions  promenade  slowly  through 
the  city,  preceded  by  tambourines  and  bagpipes,  the 
husband  riding  on  horseback  under  the  shelter  of  an 
enormous  parasol  that  serving-men  hold  over  his 
head.  Funeral  processions  hurry  past  us  with  ex- 
cessive haste,  the  corpse  tightly  swathed  in  linen  and 
carried  joltingly  on  the  shoulders  of  the  bearers  ; 
following  these,  a  breathless  crowd  that  howls  and 
bays  as  dogs  do  at  the  moon.  At  the  street  corners 
there  are  fakirs  bedabbled  with  ashes,  who  lie  in 
convulsed  and  epileptic  attitudes,  and  who  pray  with 


212  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

the  expectant  fervour  of  instant  death.  The  great 
market-place  is  surrounded  by  temples  and  mosques, 
covered  with  the  most  delicate  traceries,  and  the  stalls 
of  the  merchants  who  sell  silks,  carpets,  prints,  cakes, 
and  grains  are  besieged  by  crowds  of  women  in  multi- 
coloured veils. 

Those  horrors  of  death  and  slaughter,  those  sicken- 
ing displays  of  carcasses  of  animals  and  of  reeking  fish, 
of  guts  and  scraps  of  quivering  flesh,  are  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  for  the  people  of  Brahma  do  not  eat  anything 
that  has  ever  lived.  In  the  place  of  such  exhibitions 
we  see  heaps  of  roses  plucked  from  their  stems,  which 
are  used  in  the  making  of  essence,  or  simply  to  be 
woven  into  necklaces. 

White  doorways,  over  which  are  trellised  balconies, 
give  access  to  the  immense  royal  quarters.  There  are 
snowy  palaces  surrounded  by  beds  of  white  roses  and 
by  languishing  trees,  whose  foliage  is  that  of  late 
autumn  rather  than  of  April.  There  are  lonely  parks 
that  grow  more  parched  every  day,  and  even  the  king 
cannot  prevent  this  from  taking  place.  There  are 
little  lakes,  now  almost  waterless,  on  whose  shores 
stand  marvellously  sculptured  kiosks,  in  which  the 
Court  was  wont  to  take  the  air  in  the  rainy  seasons, 
when  water  abounded  and  the  trees  were  thick  with 
leaves. 

Peacocks  and  monkeys  wander  disconsolately 
through  the  fading  walks  where  the  roses  are  still  kept 
in  flower  with  infinite  care,  but  even  these  animals 
seem  anxious  about  the  drought  and  the  encroaching 
desolation. 

The  King  of  Gwalior  is  at  present  in  the  neighbour- 
ing mountains,  where  he  seeks  relief  from  the  fever 
that  preys  upon  him.  I  have  his  authority  to  enter  his 
palace,  so  that  all  doors  fly  open  before  me. 

The  rooms  are  furnished  in  the  European  style  with 
gildings,  brocades,  and  mirrors,  so  that  we  might  fancy 
ourselves  in  the  Palais  Bourbon  or  at  the  Elysde. 
But  in  the  midst  of  this  commonplace  luxury  we  can 
feel  that  India  is  hidden  behind  the  silken  hangings  on 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  213 

the  walls  ;  we  can  feel  the  sadness  of  the  parks  that 
are  withered  in  the  spring,  and  the  anguish  of  the 
suffering  country.  The  young  lord  who  guides  me 
with  such  distinction  through  the  palace  is  quite  a 
denizen  of  fairyland,  for  he  is  clothed  in  white,  and  a 
cap  of  rose  silk  rests  on  his  head,  pearls  are  in  his  ears, 
and  he  has  a  necklet  formed  of  two  great  rows  of 
emeralds.  His  face  recalls  the  incredibly  beautiful 
features  that  we  see  in  old  Indian  or  Persian  minia- 
tures. The  eyes,  which  are  already  too  long,  are 
lengthened  by  lines  of  paint,  the  nose  seems  too 
delicate,  and  the  black  moustache  is  almost  too  silky. 
His  cheeks  are  almost  too  red  with  the  blood  under 
the  skin  of  amber. 

The  resting-places  of  the  ancient  kings  of  Gwalior 
occupy  an  immense  and  silent  quarter  on  the  other 
side  of  the  city,  and  the  dead  monarchs  lie  in  the 
midst  of  gardens,  and  under  temples  of  stone  and 
marble,  on  which  the  pyramids  have  the  shapes  of 
huge  cypress  trees  or  churchyard  yews. 

Amongst  all  the  mausoleums  that  raise  their  pointed 
towers  towards  the  sky,  the  most  sumptuous  is  the  one 
in  which  the  late  Maharajah  sleeps.  The  stone  and 
the  white  marble  of  this  tomb  are  magnificently 
worked,  and  a  black  marble  cow  (venerated  symbol) 
reposes  in  its  sacred  shades.  This  royal  tomb  is  barely 
finished,  yet  the  birds  have  already  taken  possession 
of  it.  Owls,  doves,  and  parrots  nest  in  flocks  on  its 
pyramids,  and  the  steps  are  strewn  with  their  gray 
and  green  feathers.  The  pyramid  is  very  high,  and 
through  the  wheeling  flights  of  crows  and  eagles  that 
encompass  its  summit  we  can  see  the  whole  city  and 
its  sculptured  houses  and  palaces,  its  dying  gardens, 
and  its  monuments.  The  outskirts  are,  as  usual, 
encumbered  with  ruins  ;  ancient  cities  of  Gwalior, 
ancient  palaces  and  city  quarters,  abandoned  because 
of  their  age  and  decay,  or  deserted  during  the  stress 
of  war  or  at  the  fancy  of  their  rulers.  One  side  of 
the  horizon  is  bounded  by  a  Titan  citadel,  such  as  the 
noble  Hindoos  used  to  build  in  the  heroic  ages  of 


214  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

their  country  in  the  days  before  they  were  tamed  by 
strangers,  and  when  they  led  a  free  and  warlike  life. 
A  league  of  ramparts,  donjon  towers,  and  fierce  old 
palaces  crowns  yonder  precipitous  rocks,  more  than 
a  hundred  yards  in  height.  The  dim  background  is 
filled  with  tones  of  ashy  gray  and  tints  of  withered 
leaves,  and  these  dead  forests  and  jungles  that  are 
dead,  seen  in  the  extreme  and  vague  background, 
throw  menace,  silent  menace,  at  the  city  which  is  yet 
so  free  from  care,  so  blithe — the  menace  of  the  ap- 
proaching famine. 

Yesterday  evening  I  took  a  farewell  ride  through 
the  city  of  fretted  stone,  mounted  on  one  of  the  king's 
elephants  and  accompanied  by  an  amiable  Court 
official.  It  was  at  the  cooler  hour,  when  the  ladies  in 
painted  muslins,  or  in  muslins  worked  with  silver,  take 
the  air  of  the  balconies,  which  are  like  gems. 

Every  one  seemed  to  know  my  companion  by  sight, 
and  to  recognize  the  liveries  of  the  two  attendants  who 
ran  ahead  of  us,  so  that  we  passed  along  amidst  a 
shower  of  salutations. 

The  elephant  on  which  we  were  riding  was  a  female 
about  seventy-five  years  old,  and  so  tall  that  we  were 
on  a  level  with  the  first  floors  of  the  houses.  The 
streets  were  so  narrow  that  we  could  even  touch  the 
delicate  traceries  of  the  sculptured  galleries  on  which 
fair  ladies  were  sitting,  who  saluted  us  as  we  passed  by. 
In  one  of  the  squares  a  space  has  been  partitioned 
off  by  mats  high  enough  to  prevent  people  looking 
over  them  ;  but  we,  from  our  lofty  perch,  could  see 
into  the  airy  inclosure  and  overlook  the  marriage 
festival  which  was  being  held  in  the  street,  because 
the  house  of  the  bridal  couple  was  too  small.  We 
could  see  bejewelled  young  women  in  gold-spangled 
veils  seated  in  a  circle  listening  to  singers  and 
musicians. 

Many  salutes  greeted  us  from  the  market-place,  and 
the  petty  traders  and  poor  folk  bent  to  the  ground 
with  deep  obeisances.  The  dashing  horsemen  merely 
bowed  their  heads,  reining  in  their  horses,  which 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  215 

reared  and  plunged,  frightened  by  our  elephant,  up- 
setting baskets  of  roses.  Even  little  children  of  five 
or  six,  delightful  little  girls  with  painted  eyes,  stopped 
and  saluted  us  by  placing  their  hands  on  their  fore- 
heads. Their  curtsies  seemed  to  rise  up  from  the  very 
ground  beneath  us,  from  under  the  very  feet  of  the 
monster  which  trod  so  gently  lest  she  might  hurt 
these  little  ones. 

I  recollect  that  we  stopped  with  a  sudden  jolt  at  the 
corner  of  a  street,  which  was  scarcely  wide  enough 
to  let  us  pass  ;  then  the  head  of  an  enormous  male 
elephant  with  long  tusks  appeared  in  front,  coming 
towards  us.  There  was  a  moment's  pause.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  the  two  colossal  beasts  were  holding  a 
courteous  consultation,  as  indeed  may  have  been  the 
case,  for  they  both  came  from  the  royal  stables  and 
must  have  known  each  other  well.  At  last  the  new- 
comer retreated  thirty  paces  till  he  came  to  a  court- 
yard, and  as  we  passed  by  he  stroked  us  gently  with 
his  trunk. 

XII 
THE    ROYAL   MOUNTAIN 

Midday  already  looms,  dazzling  and  sad,  upon  the 
desolate  plains  of  India.  My  elephant  gently  ascends 
the  huge  slope  that  leads  up  the  mountain  side  to  the 
ruin-crowned  summit,  which  seems  a  burial-garden  of 
the  gods,  strewn  with  palaces  and  temples. 

The  climbing  elephant  zigzags  across  the  road  so 
as  to  mount  more  easily  ;  the  undulations  of  his  gait 
rock  me  as  with  soft  cradling,  yet  each  footstep  betrays 
the  might  of  the  colossus,  for  the  dust  flies  up  under 
the  weight  of  his  puissant  feet.  Hardly  any  sound 
accompanies  the  muffled  tread,  and  in  the  utter  silence 
of  my  surroundings  I  can  hear  little  else  than  the 
jingling  of  the  two  silver  bells  that  hang  from  the 
animal's  side,  bells  that  chime  in  sad  and  melancholy 
cadence.  Sometimes,  too,  the  flapping  wings  of  pass- 
ing eagles  or  vultures  resound  through  the  stifling  and 


216  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

motionless  air.  The  stiff  ascent  hugs  close  the  flanks 
of  vertical  rocks.  On  the  side  of  the  abyss  a  low  and 
massive  wall  with  parapets  juts  out  over  grayish  dis- 
tances, which  lie  bathed  in  a  glare  of  sun  and  dust. 

On  the  mountain  side  gigantic  things  tower  over  us, 
huge  jagged  rocks,  crowned  with  castles  and  turrets, 
such  as  the  people  of  our  time  neither  dare  to  build 
nor  know  how  to  build.  Looking  up  we  see  a  pro- 
digious expanse  of  palaces  of  the  olden  time  and  of  un- 
known style,  palaces  with  watch-towers  and  balconies 
which  jut  out  over  the  abysses,  into  which  they  look 
unflinchingly.  For  more  than  a  thousand  years  dy- 
nasties of  kings,  of  whose  existence  we  know  nothing, 
piled  stone  upon  stone  on  the  mountain  which  was 
already  a  fortress  by  Nature,  so  as  to  raise  to  the 
clouds  this  impregnable  stronghold.  Truly,  the  forti- 
fied chateaux  and  manors  of  our  country  squires  seem 
ridiculous  in  comparison  with  the  stupendous  ruins 
with  which  India  is  filled. 

The  cumbrous  elephant  still  ascends,  the  two  bells 
ever  repeating  their  soft  and  monotonous  plaint.  The 
overhead  sun  outlines  the  dancing  shadow  of  the  animal 
on  the  path,  and  paints  in  black  outlines  the  image 
of  his  waving  trunk.  The  two  escorts  who  precede  us 
climb  sleepily,  carrying  long  silver-mounted  wands  of 
state  in  their  hands. 

At  different  heights  gateways  bar  the  road  which 
we  ascend  with  Oriental  slowness.  What  need  is  there 
to  say  that  these  are  terrible  gates  with  loopholed 
keeps  rising  above  them,  and  that  they  are  guarded 
by  native  troops,  stationed  there,  perhaps,  because 
the  king  has  taken  up  his  abode  amidst  the  ruins  of 
the  glorious  past  ?  Around  us  a  widening  circle  of 
dim  plains,  whose  withered  trees  look  ashy  in  the 
dust -laden  atmosphere.  The  gray  horizon  seems  to 
mingle  with  a  gray  sky,  thick  with  incandescent  haze 
and  flights  of  birds  of  prey,  weary  of  wheeling  over 
plains,  which  reek  of  drought,  exhaustion,  and  of  death. 

A  fiery  glow  reverberates  from  the  rocks,  and  no 
breath  of  wind  stirs  through  the  air ;  even  the  birds 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  217 

are  slumberous  and  as  though  overcome  by  the  mid- 
day glare.  Eagles  and  vultures  settle  with  folded 
wings  to  watch  us  as  we  pass  by.  The  motion  of  the 
elephant  gradually  benumbs  me,  like  the  constant 
rocking  of  a  gondola  ;  my  dazzled  eyes  close,  and  soon 
I  see  nothing  but  the  immediate  objects  that  start  out 
from  the  midst  of  the  surrounding  grayness,  for  water- 
less years  have  even  enwrapped  the  red  granite  of  the 
rocks  with  a  winding-sheet  of  dust. 

First  I  see  the  gilt  turban,  the  brown  neck,  the  back 
draped  in  white,  and  the  little  sharpened  dart  of  the 
Hindoo  driver,  who  sits,  lance  in  hand,  crouched  like 
a  Buddha  on  the  animal's  neck  ;  then  a  little  of  the 
scarlet  cloth  of  the  elephant's  headpiece ;  then  his  two 
huge  pink  ears  marbled  with  black,  that  wave  fan- 
like  so  as  to  drive  off  flies  and  other  winged  tormentors. 

The  docile  beast  ascends  untiringly,  pulverizing  the 
path  under  his  heavy  feet.  By  his  side  and  close  to 
the  rocks  there  are  great  rounded  masses  of  stone  that 
recall  his  shape,  and  that  have  been  engraved  with  his 
image  by  the  people  of  a  long-forgotten  age.  Here 
vague  carvings  resembling  trunks  of  tusked  heads  ; 
there  curved  backs  whose  outlines  are  almost  those  of 
the  rocks  themselves.  There  are  also  inscriptions  in 
several  dead  languages,  and  many  gods  stand  in 
niches  cut  from  the  solid  rock,  the  work  of  the  Pals 
or  the  Jamas,  who  were  the  first  inhabitants  of  this 
formidable  spot. 

Down  below  in  the  burning  plains  the  ruins  of 
ancient  Gwalior  begin  to  be  visible  amidst  the  floating 
clouds  of  ashy  dust,  and  I  can  see  also  the  white  out- 
lines of  the  new  city  that  the  Indians  disdainfully  call 
Lachkar  (the  encampment),  and  the  great  stone  pyra- 
mids of  the  Brahmin  temples.  It  is  midday  ;  ardent 
flames  pour  down  upon  our  heads,  and  the  overheated 
rock  glows  like  a  furnace  ;  eagles,  vultures,  and  crows 
sleep,  overpowered  by  heat  and  silence. 

Ever  ascending,  we  arrive  at  the  foot  of  the  awe- 
inspiring  palaces  that  stand  on  the  precipitous  edge 
and  seem  to  raise  the  mountain's  crest  higher  into  the 


218  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

air.  These  towered  fagades  are  of  incomparable 
splendour,  for  they  are  built  of  regular  courses  of 
monstrous  blocks  of  equal  size,  extending  along  the 
whole  length  of  the  building,  their  surfaces  adorned 
with  bands  of  green,  gold,  and  blue  mosaics,  depicting 
many  races  of  men  and  animals.  Formerly  these  were 
the  homes  of  the  powerful  Kings  of  Gwalior,  who,  up  to 
the  sixteenth  century,  lived  here  lofty  and  inaccessible. 

A  huge  final  gateway,  glittering  with  bright  blue 
mosaics  and  bristling  with  the  Maharajah's  soldiers, 
at  last  admits  us  to  the  level  space  which  extends  for 
more  than  a  mile  along  the  summit  of  a  plateau  which 
is  entirely  surrounded  with  ramparts  and  said  to  be 
the  most  impregnable  stronghold  in  all  the  Eastern 
Indies.  From  the  earliest  times  this  place  has  never 
ceased  to  be  a  loadstone  to  the  envy  of  warlike  kings, 
and  volumes  of  history  are  filled  with  the  accounts 
of  marvellous  battles  that  have  been  fought  here.  Now 
it  is  but  a  lofty  desert  covered  with  palaces  and  tombs 
and  with  the  temples  and  idols  of  every  age  and  every 
civilization.  Nowhere  in  Europe  can  such  a  place  be 
found,  such  a  tragic  museum  of  bygone  splendours. 

The  elephant  kneels  down  so  that  we  may  alight 
and  enter  a  mosaic-covered  palace  that  seems  less 
archaic  and  better  preserved  than  the  others. 

It  is  barely  five  hundred  years  old,  but  the  colossal 
foundations  date  from  the  time  of  the  Pal  kings  who 
reigned  at  Gwalior  from  the  third  to  the  tenth  century 
of  our  era.  We  wander  through  low,  frowning  rooms 
whose  ceilings  are  formed  from  blocks  of  granite,  and 
encounter  the  strange  silence  by  which  ruins  are  ever 
haunted.  A  dim  twilight  and  a  sense  of  freshness, 
grateful  after  the  burning  glow  of  the  air  outside,  pre- 
vail. Nothing  remains  of  the  magnificence  of  olden 
days  but  the  luxury  of  the  carving  and  the  marvellous 
enamels  on  the  walls,  that  represent  winged  beasts, 
phoenixes  and  blue-  or  green-winged  peacocks  in  glow- 
ing colours,  colours  of  whose  permanence  the  secret 
has  been  lost.  The  view  of  the  outer  world  only 
reached  these  palaces  through  sheets  of  perforated 


IN  FAMISHED  INDIA  219 

granite  embedded  in  the  masonry  of  the  walls.  Such 
were  the  windows  where  beautiful  captives  stood  lost 
in  dreamland,  and  here,  too,  kings  must  have  come  to 
watch  the  clouds  and  the  far-off  plains  with  their 
armies  and  their  battles.  The  whole  of  the  front  which 
overlooks  the  abyss,  and  which  is  three  hundred  feet 
long,  with  a  height  of  not  less  than  a  hundred  feet,  the 
whole  of  these  halls  and  rooms,  whose  walls  are  as  thick 
as  those  of  casemates,  breathe  alone  through  these 
fretted  slabs,  which  open  neither  for  flight,  nor  suicide, 
nor  love,  more  dreadful  far  than  the  iron  bars  of  a 
prison.  Everywhere  under  the  stones  there  are  secret 
staircases  leading  to  cellars,  basements,  and  dungeons, 
and  no  one  now  knows  to  what  depth  the  rock  is 
hollowed  out  into  abandoned  wells  and  dark  passages. 

Other  palaces,  yet  more  barbarous,  lie  by  the  side 
of  this  one.  There  is  one  that  is  built  of  huge  blocks 
that  dates  from  the  Pal  kings,  another  belonging  to 
the  Jain  period,  an  almost  shapeless  mass  of  rock 
pierced  by  tiny  triangular  windows  that  resemble 
loopholes. 

In  another  direction  the  fortified  plateau  is  covered 
with  temples  whose  diversity  relates  the  whole  history 
of  Brahminism,  with  tanks  large  enough  to  satisfy  the 
wants  of  thousands  of  men  in  the  event  of  a  siege,  and 
wherever  we  may  look  a  wilderness  of  tombs  and 
statues. 

I  stop  before  a  Jain  temple  whose  gods  were  formerly 
mutilated  by  the  soldiers  of  the  Great  Mogul,  and 
dreamily  compare  it  with  the  old  monuments  of  the 
Christian  faith.  Even  our  most  beautiful  churches  are 
built  of  stones  of  uneven  size  embedded  in  mortar. 
Here,  on  the  contrary,  huge  smooth,  regular  blocks 
are  so  adjusted  and  mortised  into  each  other  that  they 
stand  upright  by  themselves,  miracles  of  precision, 
which  forms  an  almost  imperishable  whole. 

Now  I  and  my  Indians  have  resumed  our  seats  on 
the  back  of  the  slowly  swaying  elephant,  and  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  same  tinkling  bells  we  slowly 
descend  the  other  slope  of  the  mountain  into  a  ravine 


220  IN  FAMISHED  INDIA 

of  red  rocks  which  soon  cast  shadows  over  our  heads. 
We  pass  ascending  horsemen  whose  steeds  take  fright 
and  rear,  and  a  dromedary  which  wheels  round  in 
terror,  letting  his  burden  fall  to  the  ground,  for  even 
in  this  land  of  elephants  it  seems  that  there  are  few 
animals  which  learn  to  pass  them  without  fear. 

The  gorge  down  which  we  journey  is  peopled  by 
stone  giants,  colossal  figures  of  Tirthankars,  cut  from 
the  naked  rock,  that  have  their  homes  here  in  niches 
and  caves,  where  they  stand  or  sit.1 

Some  are  twenty  feet  high,  and  all  are  completely 
nude,  and  their  vastness  of  detail  gives  them  an  ob- 
scene appearance.  Both  sides  of  the  valley  are  lined 
with  staring  figures,  and  our  road  runs  through  the 
midst  of  them. 

But  the  iconoclastic  army  of  the  Great  Mogul  passed 
along  this  road  in  the  sixteenth  century  wreaking 
vengeance  on  these  images,  breaking  the  heads  and 
hands  of  some  and  disfiguring  others  in  another  way, 
so  that  all  are  mutilated.* 

Now  it  seems  that  fresh  figures  loom  through  the 
dusty  haze  which  veils  the  country.  In  other  valleys 
which  open  out  before  us  amongst  other  rocks  the 
motionless  throng  continues  in  apparently  never-end- 
ing succession.  It  is  as  if  the  air  were  ash-laden,  yet 
the  glare  of  the  sun  is  everywhere.  The  heat  and  the 
tranquil  tinkling  of  the  bells  dispose  us  to  slumber. 
As  we  draw  near  to  the  plains  everything  grows  more 
and  more  indistinct,  and  sleep  almost  overcomes  us 
as  we  pursue  our  swaying  march  through  ranks  of 
giants  whose  outlines  seem  to  melt  into  the  vagueness 
which  environs  us. 

1  The  largest  of  the  statues  are  those  of  Parvasnath  and  of 
Tirthankar  Adinath,  the  founder  of  the  Jaina  faith,  and  do  not 
date  farther  back  than  the  fifteenth  century. 

*  Mutilations  ordered  by  the  Emperor  Babar  in  1527. 


TOWARDS    BENARES 


221 


CHAPTER  VI 

TOWARDS  BENARES 

i 

THE   THEOSOPHISTS   OF   MADRAS 

"  A  HEAVEN  with  no  personal  god,  an  immortality 
without  a  separate  soul,  and  purification  without 
prayer." 

This  was  the  formula,  the  supreme  conclusion,  that 
rang  in  my  ears  in  the  melancholy  silence  that  fol- 
lowed our  conversation.  A  dark  sadness  filled  the 
lonely  house  that  stood  by  the  riverside  amidst  strange 
trees  and  palms.  The  severe  library  in  which  we  sat 
was  still  illuminated  by  the  light  that  fell  through  the 
window  panes,  but  the  transparent  images  that  repre- 
sented all  the  emblems  of  man's  faith  gradually  faded. 
Here,  as  in  a  mortuary  museum,  were  emblazoned  in 
coloured  glass  the  triangle  of  Jehovah,  the  lotus  of 
Cakya-Mouni,  the  fork  of  Vishnu,  and  the  symbols  of 
Isis.  I  was  in  the  house  of  the  Theosophists  of  Madras, 
of  whom  I  had  heard  so  many  wondrous  things.  For 
though  I  scarcely  believed  in  them,  I  had  come,  almost 
despairingly,  to  beg  for  a  ray  of  hope,  and  this  was  all 
that  they  had  to  offer,  the  cold  consolation  of  the 
doctrines  of  Buddha,  which  I  already  knew,  the  light 
of  my  own  reason. 

"  Prayer,"  they  said,  "  who  is  there  to  hear  it  ? 
Each  man  has  to  face  his  own  responsibility.  Re- 
member the  laws  of  Manou.  Man  is  born  alone,  lives 
alone,  dies  alone,  and  justice  alone  awaits  him.  Who 
is  there  to  hear  prayers  and  to  whom  would  you  pray  ? 
for  you  yourself  are  God.  You  must  pray  to  yourself 
by  means  of  your  own  actions." 

223 


224  TOWARDS  BENARES 

A  silence  fell  upon  us,  one  of  the  saddest  that  I  have 
ever  passed  through,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  silence 
it  seemed  as  if  my  last  faint  beliefs  fell  from  me  one  by 
one  with  almost  imperceptible  rustlings,  like  those  of 
falling  leaves,  withered  by  the  breath  of  the  cold,  calm 
reasoning  of  my  companions. 

Nevertheless,  the  two  men  who  had  listened  to  me 
were  kind  and  well-intentioned.  The  first  was  a  Euro- 
pean who,  wearied  of  our  anxieties  and  perplexities, 
had  come  here  to  seek  the  spiritual  detachment  which 
Buddha  used  to  preach,  and  had  become  the  leader  of 
the  Theosophical  Society  ;  the  other  was  a  Hindoo, 
who,  though  he  disdained  our  Western  philosophies, 
had  returned  home  from  Europe  vested  with  our 
highest  academical  honours. 

"  You  have  told  me,"  I  replied,  "  that  our  fading 
individuality  persists  for  a  little  while  after  death. 
Can  you  at  least  give  me  this  absolute  proof  of  what 
you  say  ?  can  you  show  me,  can  you  give  me  some 
evidence  of  its  truth  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  we  can  prove  it,  but  only  by 
reasoning.  As  to  giving  you  visible  proofs,  tangible 
proofs,  no.  To  see  those  who  are  wrongly  called  the 
dead — for  there  are  no  dead — special  senses,  special 
circumstances,  and  special  temperaments  are  essential. 
But  you  may  believe  our  words.  We  and  many  others 
worthy  of  credence  have  seen  the  departed,  and  have 
written  down  a  description  of  what  we  have  seen. 
Look,  you  will  find  in  this  bookcase  books  which 
relate  .  .  .  To-morrow  when  you  have  become  one  of 
us  you  shall  read  them." 

And  was  it  for  this  that  I  had  come  to  India,  to  the 
old  cradle  of  religion,  and  was  this  all  that  was  to  be 
found  in  the  temples  ?  Brahminism  tinctured  with 
idolatry,  and  here,  a  rearranged  Positivism  of  Cakya- 
Mouni,  and  the  Spiritualistic  books  which  have  been 
lying  about  all  over  the  world. 

After  another  silence  I  asked,  like  a  man  who  has 
given  in,  and  knowing  that  my  question  merely  verged 
on  childish  curiosity — I  asked,  almost  timidly,  whether 


/ 

o      \ 
HINDOOS  CROSSING  THE  SEA. 


TOWARDS  BENARES  225 

they  would  allow  me  to  see  the  fakirs,  those  marvellous 
Indian  fakirs  who  have  gifts  and  can  work  wonders. 
Here  at  least  I  should  see  some  proof  of  another 
world,  something  superhuman,  something  beyond  my 
comprehension. 

The  Hindoo,  who  was  seated  opposite  to  me,  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  a  frown  contracted  the  cold 
and  refined  Dantesque  face,  framed  in  a  white  turban. 
"  Fakirs  ?  "  he  replied — "  fakirs  ?  There  are  no  more 
fakirs." 

And  it  was  thus  that  I  heard  from  the  mouth  of  one 
who  was  fully  qualified  to  speak,  that  I  must  renounce 
all  hope  of  ever  seeing  anything  miraculous  on  earth. 

"  Not  even  at  Benares  ?  "  I  ventured  shyly.  "  I 
had  hoped  that  at  Benares — I  had  been  told — 

"  Let  us  understand  each  other.  There  are  plenty  of 
begging  fakirs,  posturers,  and  those  who  are  dead  to 
pain,  and  you  will  not  need  our  help  to  find  them. 
But  the  '  seers,'  the  fakirs  who  could  work  miracles — 
the  last  of  these  men  was  known  to  me.  As  to  this, 
you  may  believe  us,  such  men  did  exist.  But  the 
century  which  has  just  ended  saw  the  last  of  them. 
The  old  fakir  spirit  of  India  is  dead ;  we  are  a  decaying 
race,  and  the  materialism  of  the  West  has  hastened  this 
decay.  We  must,  however,  resign  ourselves  ;  it  is 
fate,  and  the  turn  of  the  Western  races  will  come  too. 
.  .  .  Yes,  we  have  had  our  fakirs.  You  can  read  the 
records  of  them  on  those  shelves.  ..." 

The  dead  symbols  of  human  faiths  in  the  window- 
panes  were  becoming  faint  and  indistinct ;  night  fell, 
and  the  library  was  wrapped  in  mournful  darkness.  I 
had  come  to  Madras  with  the  intention  of  staying 
some  time  with  these  Theosophists,  and  on  the  morrow 
I  was  to  have  taken  up  my  abode  in  their  house,  but 
now  I  resolved  to  leave  them,  never  to  return.  What 
was  there  for  me  to  do,  shut  up  in  that  house  of  barren 
emptiness  ?  Surely  it  was  better  to  do  as  I  had  always 
done,  to  feast  my  eyes  on  the  things  of  this  world, 
which,  if  they  be  transitory,  are  at  least,  for  an  instant, 
real.  And  then  what  of  their  proofs,  the  proofs  of  an 

15 


226  TOWARDS  BENARES 

immortality  such  as  they  foresee  ?  Is  not  the  thought 
of  the  perishing  of  the  flesh  torture  enough  to  those 
who  have  really  loved  ?  And  what  should  we  do,  I 
and  mine,  with  the  immortality  which  satisfied  these 
people  ?  No,  give  me  the  Christian  dream,  that  dream 
of  an  immortality  where  I  shall  live  a  conscious,  dis- 
tinct, and  individual  self,  where  I  may  love  and  find 
again  those  whom  I  loved  on  earth.  Without  that 
hope  what  would  faith  be  to  me  ? 

As  I  returned  towards  the  town,  it  was  the  hour 
when  the  crows  intone  their  noisy  hymn  to  Death 
before  settling  themselves  to  sleep  on  the  branches  of 
the  trees.  The  doctrines  of  the  people  I  had  just  left 
seemed  to  me  as  empty  and  as  vain  as  the  statues  of 
the  little  elephant -headed  gods  which  I  could  dimly  see 
along  the  road  under  the  palms  and  banyans. 

The  same  evening  I  sent  a  grateful  letter  of  disap- 
pointed refusal  to  the  Theosophists,  telling  them  that 
I  should  come  to  see  them  again  in  the  morning,  but 
that  it  would  be  to  bid  them  farewell,  for  that  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  leave  Madras  at  once. 

And  that  night,  amongst  the  ruins  of  the  old  homes 
of  my  childhood,  I  saw  the  pale,  distorted  faces  of 
those  I  had  loved  best,  and  knew  that  they  were  dead 
for  ever ;  and,  as  in  that  other  night  in  Jerusalem 
when  my  first  beliefs  fell  from  me,  dreams  of  unspeak- 
able horror  and  of  a  sadness  without  surcease  followed 
on  each  other  till  the  morning  came,  when  I  was 
awakened  by  the  harsh  voice  of  a  crow,  which  sang 
the  song  of  death  to  the  rising  sun. 

When  I  returned  in  the  afternoon  to  say  farewell, 
the  leader  of  the  Theosophists,  who  had  read  and  had 
understood  my  letter,  met  me  with  a  sweetness  that 
I  had  little  expected. 

"  Christian  !  "  he  cried,  clasping  my  hand  in  a  long 
embrace,  "  I  had  thought  that  you  were  an  unbeliever. 
I  was  wrong  in  offering  you  the  matter-of-fact  explana- 
tions of  the  principles  which  Buddha  left  us,  the 
explanations  which  we  usually  give  first.  ...  A  mind 
like  yours  needs  the  esoteric  faith,  and  our  friends  at 


TOWARDS  BENARES  227 

Benares  understand  that  better  than  we  do,  and  there 
you  will  find  prayer  and  recommunion  under  another 
form.  But  prayer  alone  will  not  suffice,  and  they  will 
teach  you  how  to  deserve.  .  .  .  Seek  and  you  will  find. 
I  have  searched  for  forty  years,  so  take  courage  and 
seek  further.  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  that  we  would 
wish  to  keep  you  with  us,  for  the  teaching  of  our  house 
is  not  suited  to  you,  and,  besides,"  he  added  smil- 
ingly, "  your  time  is  not  come  yet,  the  world  still 
holds  you  in  its  clutches." 

"  Pe'rhaps." 

"You  seek,  but  you  are  afraid  to  find." 

"  That  may  be." 

"  We  speak  to  you  of  renouncing  all  things,  and 
you,  you  wish  to  live.  Go  your  way,  go  to  Delhi  and  to 
Agra,  go  where  you  wish  and  to  all  that  calls  and  at- 
tracts you.  Only  promise  me  that  before  you  leave  India 
you  will  go  to  Benares  to  our  friends.  We  shall  have 
announced  your  visit,  and  they  will  be  expecting  you." 

The  Hindoo  whom  I  saw  the  day  before  entered 
silently  and  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  of  sweet  com- 
passion. All  at  once  these  two  men  seemed  to  be 
transfigured,  to  become  greater,  more  subtle  and  im- 
penetrable, but  the  same  expression  of  peace  and  good- 
ness radiated  from  the  eyes  of  these  strange  ascetics, 
and  though  I  could  not  understand  this  sudden  trans- 
formation, I  inclined  my  head  before  them  in  trustful 
thankfulness. 

To  stay  a  while  with  their  friends  at  Benares  before 
leaving  India.  Ah  !  yes  !  I  consented  gladly,  feeling  a 
vague  presentiment  that  there  I  should  find  a  different 
environment  where  I  might  find  peace. 

But  that  I  would  reserve  till  the  eve  of  my  departure 
from  India.  I  would  defer  that  last  test  as  long  as 
possible,  for  I  still  hesitated  like  a  coward  whom  a 
double  fear  assails.  It  might  be  that  all  my  hopes 
would  be  taken  away  from  me  for  ever,  or  I  might 
find.  Then  perhaps  the  new  way  would  open  out 
before  me  and  an  end  would  come  to  all  these  earthly 
joys,  mere  illusions  doubtless,  but  still  so  delightful. 


228  TOWARDS  BENARES 

ii 

TWILIGHT   AT   JUGGERNAUT 

The  gigantic  temple  of  Juggernaut  stands  in  the 
centre  of  an  old  Brahmin  town  far  away  from  every- 
where among  the  sands  and  dunes  of  the  Gulf  of 
Bengal. 

I  arrived  at  sunset  on  my  way  from  the  interior. 
Suddenly  my  carriage  glided  along  noiselessly,  as  if 
we  were  running  on  velvet.  We  were  on  the  sands, 
and  the  long,  blue  line  of  the  sea  lay  before  us. 

First  we  pass  some  fishermen's  huts,  scattered 
amongst  the  cactus  hedges  that  grow  on  the  dunes. 
Then  Juggernaut  appears,  rising  above  myriads  of 
gray,  palm-thatched  roofs.  The  aspect  of  the  temple 
on  this  sea-girt  shore  is  particularly  strange,  and  the 
pyramid  is  so  tall  that  all  the  objects  lying  at  its  feet 
seem  dwarfed.  It  has  the  elongated  and  swollen  ap- 
pearance of  a  crocodile's  egg,  a  huge  egg  placed  up- 
right on  its  end.  Rose-coloured  veins  wander  over  a 
white  surface  that  is  without  other  ornamentation,  and 
it  is  two  hundred  feet  high  without  counting  its  bronze 
disc  or  the  upright  darts  that  bristle  on  its  summit.  It 
can  easily  be  seen,  standing  on  the  flat  sea-level  shore, 
by  ships  which  are  making  for  the  mouth  of  the  Ganges, 
and  nautical  maps  mark  its  site.  The  coast  in  this 
region,  however,  offers  no  favourable  anchorage,  so 
that  seamen  only  know  the  old  sanctuary  from  its  dim 
outlines. 

A  large,  wide  road  leads  straight  to  the  temple,  that 
central  point  and  lode-star  of  Juggernaut,  and  on  my 
arrival  there  this  road  is  thronged  with  people.  This 
part  of  India  is  not  so  civilized,  the  natives  view 
strangers  with  astonishment,  and  children  turn  back  to 
follow  one.  The  sea  wind  has  deepened  the  colour  of 
the  nude  men,  and  the  women,  who  are  wrapped  in 
muslins,  have  so  many  rings  round  their  ankles  that 
they  can  hardly  walk,  and  such  a  profusion  of  bracelets 
covers  the  space  between  their  wrists  and  shoulders 


TOWARDS  BENARES  229 

that  their  beautiful  arms  seem  sheathed  in  metal.  The 
little  houses  are  more  completely  covered  by  paintings 
than  I  have  seen  elsewhere,  and  on  their  whitewashed 
fronts  cruel-faced  gods  and  goddesses  are  outlined  in 
blue  and  red,  after  the  style  of  the  frescoes  of  Thebes 
and  Memphis.  The  houses,  too,  with  their  columns, 
buttresses,  and  walls  that  slope  inwards  in  such  an 
exaggerated  manner  recall  those  of  ancient  Egypt. 

The  temple  is  a  large  and  sullen  fortress  inclosed  in 
a  square  of  crested  walls,  each  frontage  of  which  has  a 
central  door.  The  principal  entrance  faces  the  street 
down  which  I  am  now  walking,  and  two  monsters  with 
lolling  eyes,  flattened  noses,  and  fierce  grins  guard  its 
portal.  Through  the  open  doorway  I  can  see  large, 
white  steps  crowded  with  people  ascending  to  the 
temple. 

I  need  not  say  that  to  me  the  sanctuary  is  closed, 
and  the  priests  even  ask  me  to  go  farther  off,  for  I  had 
ventured  to  place  my  feet  on  some  part  of  the  paving- 
stones  of  the  temple  which  jutted  out  into  the  road.  I 
have  to  withdraw  to  the  sand  of  the  street,  the  sand 
which  is  free  to  all,  with  which  the  streets  of  Jugger- 
naut are  felted. 

But  I  may  walk  round  the  square  fortress  which  I 
must  not  enter.  The  four  walls  are  surrounded  by  an 
avenue  of  massive  houses,  built  of  baked  earth — old 
dwellings  whose  thick  walls  slope  inwards  and  are 
painted  with  the  usual  rows  of  gods  or  devils,  in  blue 
or  red,  on  their  frontages.  Broken  staircases  lead  to 
verandas  which  overhang  the  street,  and  there  parties 
of  Indian  women  are  sitting  in  the  evening  air,  looking 
around  or  dreaming,  braceleted  creatures,  often  fair  to 
look  upon  in  their  transparent  muslin  veils. 

A  troop  of  little  girls,  whose  curiosity  seems  in- 
satiable, follow  me  in  my  walk  around  the  temple.  The 
eldest  may  be  eight  years  old,  and  all  are  charming. 
They  wear  golden  rings  on  their  ankles  and  in  their 
noses,  and  look  frankly  at  me  with  eyes  that  are  painted 
into  an  almond  shape. 

It  is  expected  that  a  great  pilgrimage  will  arrive 


230  TOWARDS  BENARES 

shortly  before  nightfall,  so  I  walk  slowly  round  the 
crested  walls  while  awaiting  it.  The  avenue  behind  the 
temples  is  more  lonely,  and  were  it  not  for  my  escort 
it  would  be  dismal ;  but  the  little  girls  follow  closely 
behind  me,  stopping  when  I  stop,  and  when  I  push 
forward  the  tinkling  of  their  metal-encircled  limbs  tells 
me  that  they  are  hastening  forward  also. 

The  great,  white,  rose-veined  temple  is  still  far  from 
me,  as  it  is  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  round  which  I 
am  walking,  but  there  are  many  smaller  temples 
clustered  round  the  outer  walls  which  I  can  see  better. 
All  have  the  same  pumpkin-like  shape,  but  they  are 
cracked  and  blackened,  and  show  signs  of  extreme  old 
age.  The  giant  in  the  middle,  however,  seems  quite 
young,  for  it  is  quite  white.  Its  shape,  though,  is 
an  unexpected  one.  The  bronze  disc  crowned  with 
gleaming  points  and  the  childishly  barbaric  shape 
might  make  one  think  that  it  had  been  built  by  the 
denizens  of  the  moon,  or  of  some  other  planet.  As 
usual,  flocks  of  birds  are  flying  madly  round  before 
seeking  their  evening  shelter  in  the  temple. 

The  little  girls  and  I  reach  the  third  side  of  the  for- 
bidden square.  Here  many  beautiful  dreamers  are 
gathered  on  the  verandas,  and  there  is  a  market  being 
held  in  the  street  where  fruits,  rice,  flowers,  and  painted 
muslins  are  being  displayed  for  sale. 

The  sun  has  set,  and  all  the  earth  is  in  shadow,  but 
the  temple  is  still  bathed  in  rosy  hues.  It  is  nearly 
time  for  the  sacred  monkeys  to  take  their  customary 
evening  walk.  I  see  one  on  the  crest  of  the  sacred  wall, 
where  he  sits  and  scratches  himself,  but  as  he  squats 
there  he  can  hardly  be  distinguished  from  the  little 
gods  and  other  monsters  that  are  sculptured  on  the 
ramparts.  Soon  another  comes  and  perches  on  a 
neighbouring  crest,  a  third,  a  fourth,  and  now  the  walls 
are  all  alive  with  monkeys. 

The  light  is  fast  fading.  Only  the  upper  part  of  the 
pyramid  has  a  luminous  rosy  tint,  the  rest  of  the  huge 
temple  looks  gray  and  old.  On  the  edge  of  the  wall 
there  are  stone-coloured  monkeys  and  stone  monsters 


TOWARDS  BENARES  231 

of  the  colour  of  monkeys,  and  there  are  vultures  perched 
everywhere.  In  the  air  clouds  of  crows  and  pigeons 
fly  in  narrowing  circles  round  the  disc  of  bronze. 

Now  it  is  time  for  the  monkeys  to  take  their  evening 
walk.  First  one  lets  go  his  hold,  glides  down  the  wall, 
jumps  to  the  ground  and  boldly  crosses  the  street,  the 
groups  of  merchants  respectfully  standing  aside  ;  then 
others,  running  on  all  fours,  follow  him  in  single  file. 
Were  it  not  for  their  long  legs  one  might  have  said 
that  they  were  dogs  with  odd  and  frisky  manners,  and 
tails  carried  high  in  the  air.  The  first  monkey  steals  a 
plum  from  a  basket  as  he  passes  ;  the  others  do  like- 
wise, all  from  the  same  basket.  Now  they  clamber 
quickly  up  the  sides  of  a  house  and  the  mysterious 
procession  disappears  among  the  roofs. 

On  the  outer  walls  of  the  temple  a  horrible  black  and 
grinning  idol  of  Pandavas,  twice  the  height  of  a  man, 
dwells  in  a  sort  of  shelter  made  of  branches  and  palm- 
matting.  An  old  priest  mounts  on  a  stool  and  places  a 
garland  of  yellow  flowers  round  the  idol's  neck  ;  then, 
after  lighting  a  tiny  lamp,  makes  many  obeisances  and 
tinkles  a  little  bell.  This  done,  he  draws  the  curtains 
for  the  night,  and  goes  away,  still  bowing.  Something 
flits  stealthily  past  my  face  :  a  large  bat  of  the  kind 
called  "  vampires,"  which  has  come  out  before  its  usual 
time  and  now  flies  low  and  fearlessly  among  the  crowd. 

A  faint  rosy  glimmer  lingers  on  the  point  of  the 
tower,  and  the  hour  sacred  to  Brahma  is  at  hand.  The 
temple  resounds  with  music  and  outcries,  which  reach 
me  in  a  confused  hum.  What  can  be  happening  within 
the  forbidden  temple  ?  What  fearful  idols  receive  the 
evening  homage  of  the  people  ?  and  what  form  can 
prayer  assume  in  these  souls,  as  impenetrable  to  me  as 
the  temple  itself  ? 

One  monkey,  meanwhile,  has  remained  seated  on 
the  crest  of  the  wall,  with  his  back  turned  on  the 
people  standing  in  the  street,  and  his  tail  hanging 
over  the  edge  of  the  coping.  He  looks  sadly  at  the 
light  fading  from  the  top  of  the  pyramid,  on  whose 
summit  whirling  clouds  of  crows  and  pigeons  are  taking 


232  TOWARDS  BENARES 

up  their  night  quarters,  and  at  the  veins  and  projec- 
tions of  the  monstrous  building,  now  black  with  birds 
whose  wings  still  flap.  I  can  scarcely  see  more  than 
the  outlines  of  the  monkey's  form,  though  the  nearly 
human  back  and  the  pensive  head  with  its  pricked 
ears  stand  out  plainly  against  the  rosy  pallor  of  the 
enormous  tower. 

Again  the  sensation  of  noiseless  fanning,  as  the  bat 
flits  backwards  and  forwards  without  heeding  me. 

The  monkey  looks  at  the  great  pyramid,  I  look  at  the 
monkey,  and  the  little  girls  look  at  me.  An  equal  want 
of  comprehension  divides  each  of  us  from  the  other. 

I  have  taken  up  my  position  once  more  near  the 
chief  entrance  to  the  temple,  on  that  sandy  stretch 
where  the  main  street  of  Juggernaut  ends.  The  crowd, 
assembled  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  pilgrims,  now,  as 
they  tell  me,  close  at  hand,  grows  denser  every  minute. 

The  sacred  cattle  are  there,  too,  wandering  among 
the  crowd.  There  is  one  especially  petted  by  the 
children,  huge,  quite  white,  and  doubtless  very  old. 
There  is  also  a  small  black  cow  with  five  legs,  and  a 
gray  one  which  has  six.  The  extra  legs,  however,  are 
too  short  to  reach  the  ground,  and  hang  from  their 
sides  like  dead  or  withered  limbs. 

Far  away,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  I  can  at  last  see 
the  pilgrims.  There  are  some  two  or  three  hundred, 
and  their  flat,  grass  parasols  are  open,  though  it  is  full 
dusk.  Wallets  and  gourds  hang  from  their  waists,  and 
shells  and  charms  are  fastened  all  about  them.  Their 
faces  and  chests  are  powdered  with  ashes,  and  they 
walk  with  feverish  haste,  as  if  the  sight  of  the  sacred 
edifice  had  kindled  the  fire  of  religion  within  them. 

Now  music  comes  from  a  balcony,  which  is  placed 
above  the  entrance  to  the  temple ;  cries  of  human  voices 
mingle  with  the  tom-toms ;  sacred  horns  howl  dolefully. 

The  pilgrims  hasten  forward,  and  when  they  have 
reached  the  open  space,  throw  down  their  clothes,  para- 
sols, wallets,  and  rush  tumultuously,  and  like  a  crowd 
of  maniacs,  through  the  doors  guarded  by  the  monsters 
up  the  stairways  and  into  the  yawning  temple. 


TOWARDS  BENARES  233 

The  night  has  come,  and  I  must  go  to  seek  the 
"  Travellers'  Rest,"  which,  as  in  most  towns,  will 
probably  be  far  distant,  and  almost  in  the  country. 

I  find  it  in  a  little  sandy  waste,  where  the  rocking 
sound  of  the  sea  is  heard ;  that  sound  which  is  the  same 
on  every  shore.  I  can  see  neither  Juggernaut  nor  its 
strange  tower,  for  both  are  drowned  in  dark  blue  shades. 
The  smell  of  the  sea  and  of  the  little  wild  plants  with 
which  the  sands  are  carpeted,  takes  my  melancholy 
musings  away  from  the  Gulf  of  Bengal  to  the  land  of 
my  childhood,  to  the  shores  of  the  Isle  of  Oleron. 

Only  those  can  know  the  charms  and  all  the  bitter 
sadness  of  far  journeyings  who  have  an  unconquerable 
attachment  for  their  native  land  grafted  in  their  souls. 

HI 
THE  WHITE  SPLENDOURS  OF  THE  GREAT  MOGULS 

Express  trains  now  make  it  possible  to  annihilate 
space  in  India,  just  as  they  do  with  us.  So  I  return  in 
forty-eight  hours  from  Juggernaut  on  the  shores  of  the 
Gulf  of  Bengal  to  the  region  where  the  dry  wind  of 
famine  blows,  travelling  across  the  dreary  northern 
plains  and  passing  Benares,  which  I  still  dread  and 
hesitate  to  visit,  and  now  I  am  in  the  Mohammedan 
city  of  Agra. 

To  any  one  coming,  as  I  do,  from  Brahmin  India 
for  the  first  time,  the  most  striking  feature  is  the  abso- 
lute change  in  the  character  of  the  religious  monu- 
ments. Mosques  replace  pagodas,  and  a  sober,  precise, 
and  elegant  art  takes  the  place  of  wanton  luxury.  In- 
stead of  the  orgy  and  promiscuity  of  gods  and  monsters, 
which  characterize  the  temples  of  the  Pourana  divini- 
ties, we  see  that  the  places  of  worship  of  the  land  of 
Agra  are  decorated  by  pure  geometrical  lines  which 
arabesque  amidst  white  marbles,  with  here  and  there  a 
few  formal  flowers  traced  on  their  polished  surfaces. 

The  Great  Moguls !  Those  words  sound  to-day  like 
the  title  of  some  old  Oriental  fairy-story,  like  the  name 
of  some  legend. 


234  TOWARDS   BENARES 

Here  they  lived,  those  magnificent  monarchs,  masters 
of  the  vastest  empire  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
The  city  of  Agra  is  still  commanded  by  one  of  their 
enormous  palaces,  and  it  still  stands  much  as  they  left 
it,  though  there  are  traces  of  ruin  and  poverty  which 
they  never  can  have  known. 

Under  the  burning  clouds  of  dust,  and  whirling 
flights  of  crows,  vultures,  and  eagles,  the  city  of  Agra 
remains  as  of  old. 

A  marriage  procession,  preceded  by  huge  drums, 
sallies  forth  as  I  enter.  The  husband  is  a  lad  of  six- 
teen, he  is  dressed  in  red  and  green  velvet  and  is 
mounted  on  a  white  horse.  The  wife,  who  cannot  be 
seen,  follows  in  a  palanquin  which  is  shut  in ;  then  come 
attendants,  carrying  on  theirheads  the  wedding  presents 
in  gilt  chests,  and  closing  in  are  four  men  pompously 
bearing  on  their  shoulders  the  gilded  marriage  bed. 

The  houses  are  old  and  very  tall,  widening  out 
towards  the  top,  with  overhanging  galleries  and  bal- 
conies. On  the  ground  floor  are  merchants  who  sell  a 
thousand  gaudy  things  which  quiver  with  silks  and 
spangles.  On  the  first  floor  bayaderes  and  courtesans, 
black  and  heavy-browed,  lean  from  the  windows,  and 
above,  many  humble  people  live,  whose  curtains  are 
kept  discreetly  drawn.  On  the  roofs  I  can  always 
see  perching  vultures  and  sometimes  troops  of  mon- 
keys, who  either  muse,  or  else  watch  the  folk  below. 
It  is  centuries  since  the  monkeys  first  invaded  Agra 
and  made  their  homes  like  parrots  on  the  roofs,  and 
certain  ruined  quarters  are  almost  given  over  to  them, 
where  they  live  at  their  pleasure,  pillaging  the  sur- 
rounding gardens  and  markets. 

From  the  distance  the  palace  of  Agra  seems  almost 
like  a  mountain  of  red  sandstone  that  bristles  with 
fierce  battlements.  Looking  at  these  blood-coloured 
and  gloomy  prison  walls  one  wonders  how  the  court 
of  the  magnificent  emperors  could  have  used  this  spot 
as  the  scene  on  which  their  fantastic  luxury  was  dis- 
played. If,  however,  we  approach  from  the  riverside, 
where  the  sacred  Jumna  runs  beneath  its  shady  walls, 


TOWARDS  BENARES  235 

alhambras  of  white  lace  appear,  looking  like  some 
dreamland  palaces,  which  by  chance  had  sprung  from 
the  flanks  of  a  rugged  fortress  of  Titans.  It  was  up 
there  that  the  great  Moguls  and  their  sultanas  lived, 
overlooking  everything,  almost  in  the  sky,  inaccessible 
and  secluded  amidst  the  whiteness  and  transparence  of 
pure  marble. 

We  enter  through  arched  doors,  not  unlike  vaulted 
tunnels,  piercing  the  triple  ramparts,  and  then  we  mount 
imposing  stairways  of  the  same  deep  sandstone  hue. 

Suddenly  a  diaphanous  pallor  dawns  upon  us,  great 
white  and  silent  splendour,  for  we  have  reached  the 
marble  palaces.  Everything  is  white — pavement, 
walls,  pillars,  ceilings,  and  the  chiselled  balustrades  of 
terraces  which  face  the  far-off  hills.  Here  and  there  a 
few  flowers  are  graven  on  the  spotless  walls,  flowers 
worked  in  mosaics  of  agate  and  of  porphyry,  but  they 
are  so  fine,  so  rare,  and  yet  so  simply  wrought,  that 
the  snowy  look  of  the  palace  is  in  no  way  changed. 
Silence  and  abandonment  are  everywhere,  but  every- 
thing is  as  clear  and  sharp  as  on  the  day  which  saw 
the  banishment  of  the  last  emperor.  Time  has  only 
left  the  faintest  trace  on  all  this  marble.  These  ex- 
quisite things,  so  fragile,  and  of  an  appearance  so 
delicate,  are,  compared  with  us,  almost  eternal. 

A  melancholy  garden  also  was  perched  up  there, 
on  this  artificial  mountain,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
enormous,  closely  shut-in  citadel.  It  is  surrounded  by 
large  porches  of  marble,  which  look  like  the  entrances 
to  white  grottos,  from  the  vaults  of  which  stalactites 
hang  down.  But  these  are  no  natural  grottos,  for  the 
smallest  carvings  on  their  vaulted  ceilings  are  won- 
drously  exact ;  the  least  facet  of  their  complex  arches  is 
geometrically  precise.  A  narrow  black  line,  which  looks 
as  though  it  had  been  traced  with  the  tip  of  a  brush, 
edges  all  these  arabesqued  designs.  This  is  the  work 
of  no  painter's  brush,  but  a  very  skilful  inlay  of  onyx. 

These  halls  of  melancholy  splendour  are  doorless 
and  either  open  into  one  another  or  lead  to  terraces 
through  great  arched  openings.  This  would  convey  a 


236  TOWARDS  BENARES 

sense  of  trustfulness  were  it  possible  to  forget  how 
these  palaces  were  guarded  by  terrible  bastions  under- 
neath. There  is  even  an  open  terrace  on  which  audi- 
ences were  given,  decorated  with  the  most  refined 
simplicity  ;  just  a  few  masterly  carvings  of  the  marble, 
nothing  more.  Then  there  is  a  black  marble  throne 
for  the  Great  Mogul,  and  by  the  side  of  it  a  white 
marble  stool  for  the  Court  buffoon,  and  that  is  all. 
In  those  days,  it  appears,  political  discussions  were 
of  such  serious  import  that  the  presence  of  the  fool 
was  needed  so  as  to  give  relief  to  the  minds  of  the 
debaters.  We  all  know  that  in  political  gatherings 
I  to-day  there  is  no  need  to  select  any  special  fool  for 
this  purpose. 

The  Emperor's  bathroom  is  white — that  goes  with- 
out saying — snowy  white,  with  an  inextricable  tangle 
of  lines,  arches,  and  sculptured  windows.  The 
sonorous  vaulted  roofs  are  carved  into  facets  and  look 
as  if  they  were  powdered  with  frozen  milk.  A  few 
graceful  flower-sprays  are  engraved  at  random  over 
the  marble  walls,  the  meanest  of  which  is  a  marvel  of 
gold  and  lapis  lazuli  mosaic. 

On  the  extreme  edge  of  the  ramparts  which  support 
the  whole  building,  on  the  side  of  the  Jumna  and  the 
great  open  plains,  there  are  many  little  buildings  and 
tiny  kiosks  overlooking  the  country  in  which  the  sul- 
tanas and  veiled  beauties  used  to  sit  and  taste  the 
evening  air.  It  is  here  that  the  lace-like  traceries  of 
the  marble  give  the  most  wonderful  effects.  The  walls 
are  transparent,  but  only  from  within,  and  the  single 
plaques,  of  which  they  are  constructed,  are  so  elabor- 
ately worked  that  at  a  distance  they  resemble  costly 
embroideries,  stretched  between  slender  and  charming 
columns.  Yet  these  traceries,  which  look  so  perishable 
and  delicate,  embody  the  most  lasting  and  most  ruin- 
ously beautiful  creations  that  man  has  ever  made.  In 
the  lower  parts  of  this  monstrous  building  there  are 
other  chambers,  some  even  in  the  solid  rock,  rooms 
that  are  half  in  shadow,  and  whose  magnificence  has 
a  furtive  look.  Among  others  are  the  baths  of  the 


OVERLOOKING  THE  JUMNA. 


TOWARDS  BENARES  237 

Grand  Sultana,  a  kind  of  vast  enchanted  cavern  where 
one  feels  an  earthly  chill,  and  where  the  feeble  light 
drops  from  the  ceiling  like  a  shower  of  rain  which  frost 
has  turned  to  ice.  The  walls  are  covered  with  mosaics 
made  of  silvered  glass,  but  their  lustre  has  been 
tarnished  by  damp  and  age,  and  the  myriad  prisms 
only  shimmer  now  with  the  delicate  reflections  of 
worked  brocade.  In  the  old  days  this  hidden  place 
was  peopled  by  all  the  fairest  and  most  beautiful  that 
the  Indian  race  could  offer,  and  the  still  untarnished 
stones  and  benches  where  they  lay  and  rested  are  yet 
haunted  by  their  youthful  amber  forms. 

A  royal  fortress  was  situated  here  long  before  the 
arrival  of  the  conquering  Moguls,  who  introduced  these 
milk-white  marbles  and  these  geometrical  ornamenta- 
tions. There  still  are  some  rooms  where  the  archaic 
carvings  on  the  sandstone  dates  from  the  Jaina  kings. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  gloomy  staircase,  hollowed 
from  the  solid  rock,  one  comes  to  strange  and  fearsome 
places,  dungeons  where  people  were  thrown  to  the 
cobras,  the  room  in  which  sultanas  met  their  fate, 
bottomless  black  holes  and  underground  passages 
leading  to  charnel-  or  to  treasure-houses  which  no  one 
dares  to  explore.  These  are  the  deep  and  noxious 
roots  of  the  lily-like  splendour  which  blooms  above. 

After  leaving  these  gloomy  vaults  I  return  to  the 
kiosks,  whose  fine  traceries  advance  to  the  edge  of  the 
ramparts,  and  whose  balconies  overhang  the  yawning 
depths  below.  I  linger  awhile  in  places  where  the 
beauties  and  sultanas  of  bygone  times,  secluded  in  this 
palace  far  above  the  wheeling  flights  of  birds,  have 
stood  and  gazed  between  the  marble  plaques  and  fluted 
columns.  All  the  surroundings  are  of  exquisite  re- 
finement. Mosaic  flowers  and  minute  carvings  are 
scattered  over  the  unvarying  white  background  and 
everything  here  looks  whiter  than  elsewhere,  though 
a  lingering  sadness  seems  to  hover  round  this  spot. 
Doubtless,  the  view  that  the  sultanas  saw  was  less 
desolate  than  it  is  now  ;  the  same  plains  extending  to 
the  horizon,  the  same  wandering  river,  but  the  wind 


238  TOWARDS  BENARES 

of  famine  did  not  blow  nor  did  that  death-like  haze  of 
dust  hang  over  the  land  like  some  dreadful  pall.  Be- 
neath the  balconies  and  almost  under  their  feet,  the 
belles  could  overlook  the  arena  where  bloody  fights 
between  elephants  and  tigers  were  given  for  their  sport ; 
but  now  the  courtyard  is  overgrown  with  shrubs  and 
trees  whose  leaves  have  been  withered  by  the  drought. 

In  no  part  of  India  are  the  birds  so  numerous  or  so 
troublesome  as  they  are  here.  Their  cries  are  the  only 
sounds  which  reach  me  on  the  lonely  terraces,  and  the 
pale  marbles  echo  with  their  screams.  As  twilight 
comes  on  the  winged  crowd  seems  to  segregate.  One 
tree  below  me  is  black  with  crows  ;  another  is  so 
thronged  with  parrots  that  it  looks  as  though  its  dead 
branches  had  once  again  put  forth  leaves.  White- 
bosomed  eagles  and  bald-headed  vultures  wander 
tamely  round  the  abandoned  circus. 

Amongst  the  distant  plains  white  cupolas,  of  that 
diaphanous  pearliness  that  no  artifice  can  ever  imitate, 
are  seen  rising  from  the  dusty  haze  that  covers  all  the 
land,  a  haze  which  turns  from  blue  to  purple  in 
the  evening  twilight.  These  are  the  resting-places  of 
the  princesses  who  once  trod  these  lofty  terraces,  and, 
arrayed  in  gold-striped  muslins  and  precious  stones, 
displayed  their  naked  loveliness.  The  largest  dome  is 
that  of  the  Taj,  Taj  the  incomparable,  where  the  great 
sultana,  Montaz-i -Mahal,  sleeps  since  two  hundred 
and  seventy  years  ago.  Everybody  has  seen  and  has 
described  the  Taj,  which  is  known  as  one  of  the  classic 
wonders  of  the  world.  Enamels  and  miniatures  still 
preserve  the  features  of  the  much-beloved  Montaz-i- 
Mahal  and  of  her  husband,  the  sultan,  who  created  the 
place,  wishing  to  enshroud  his  dead  wife  with  unheard- 
of  splendour.  Standing  in  a  park-like  cemetery  that 
is  walled  in  like  a  fortress,  the  Taj  is  the  largest  and 
most  stainless  mass  of  marble  that  the  world  has  seen. 
The  walls  of  this  park  and  the  high  cupolas  rising 
over  the  four  outer  gates  are  of  red  sandstone  encrusted 
with  alabaster,  but  the  artificial  lakes,  shady  groves, 
and  boskages  of  palm  and  cypress  that  lie  within  dis- 


r  ••»       - 


THE  INCOMPARABLE  TAJ. 


TOWARDS  BENARES  239 

play  a  cold  formality  of  tracing.  Out  of  these  the 
incomparable  monument  towers  forth  in  a  whiteness 
which  the  surrounding  sombre  greenery  seems  to  en- 
hance. An  immense  cupola  and  four  minarets,  lofty 
as  towers,  stand  on  a  white  pediment,  and  everywhere 
the  same  restful  purity  of  outline  and  the  same  calm 
and  supremely  simple  harmony  of  tone  pervade  a 
colossal  edifice  entirely  built  of  white  marble,  diapered 
by  almost  imperceptible  lines  of  a  pale  gray. 

On  coming  nearer,  delicate  arabesques  of  thin  black 
marble  inlay  are  observed,  which  damascene  the  walls 
and  underline  the  cornices,  twining  round  the  doors 
and  minarets.1 

Under  the  central  cupola,  which  is  seventy-five  feet 
high,  the  sultana  sleeps.  Here  there  is  nothing  but 
the  most  superb  simplicity,  only  a  great  white  splen- 
dour. It  should  be  dark  here,  but  it  is  as  light  as  if 
these  whitenesses  were  self-illuminating,  as  if  this 
great  carved  sky  of  marble  had  a  vague  transparence. 
There  is  nothing  on  the  walls  but  veins  of  pearly  gray 
and  a  few  faintly  outlined  arches,  and  on  the  dome's 
white  firmament  nothing  but  those  facets  traced  as 
with  a  compass,  which  imitate  the  crystal  pendants  of 
some  stalactite  cave.  Around  the  pediment,  however, 
there  is  a  bordering  of  great  lilies  sculptured  in  bold 
relief.  Their  stalks  seem  to  spring  out  of  the  ground, 
and  the  marble  flowers  look  as  if  their  petals  were 
about  to  fall.  This  decoration,  which  flourished  in 
India  in  the  seventeenth  century,  has  now  been  more  or 
less  indifferently  imitated  by  our  modern  Western  art. 

The  wonder  of  wonders  is  the  white  grille  that 
stands  in  the  centre  of  the  translucent  hall  and  incloses 
the  tomb  of  the  sultana.  It  is  made  of  plaques  of 
marble  placed  upright,  so  finely  worked  that  it  might 
be  thought  that  they  were  carved  in  ivory.  On  each 
marble  upright  and  each  stud  with  which  these  fretted 
marble  plaques  are  surrounded  little  garlands  of  tulips, 
fuchsias,  and  immortelles  are  worked  in  mosaics  of 

1  The  Taj  formerly  had  doors  of  solid  silver.     These  were  taken 
away  when  Agra  was  sacked  by  Suraj-Mall. 


240  TOWARDS  BENARES 

turquoise,  topaz,  porphyry,  or  lapis  lazuli.  The 
sonority  of  this  white  mausoleum  is  almost  terrifying, 
for  the  echoes  never  seem  to  cease.  If  the  name  of 
Allah  is  intoned  the  exaggerated  echo  lasts  for  several 
seconds  and  then  lingers  in  the  air  like  the  faint  breath 
of  an  organ. 

Behind  the  formidable  ramparts  of  Delhi,  about 
sixty  leagues  farther  north,  the  Great  Moguls  had 
another  enchanted  palace  even  more  magnificent  than 
the  one  at  Agra. 

The  great  pointed  arches  of  the  Delhi  palace  look 
on  to  a  garden  shut  in  by  high  and  crested  walls. 
The  splendour  of  the  delicate  structure  has  never  been 
exceeded,  but  it  is  a  prison  if  only  for  fairies  and  genii. 
What  need  to  say  that  it  is  of  the  whitest  marble,  or 
that  the  ceilings  rain  their  frosted  icicles  upon  the 
matchless  carvings  ?  But  here  masses  of  gold  mingle 
with  the  whiteness  of  the  marble,  and  their  colours 
blend  into  a  new  harmony.  The  thousand  wondrously 
chiselled  arabesques  lining  the  walls  and  roof  appear 
in  a  setting  of  sparkling  gold. 

No  other  light  but  that  which  comes  through  the 
arches  opening  on  to  the  garden  enters  the  palace,  so 
that  the  columns  and  indented  arches  which  succeed 
each  other  in  a  diminishing  perspective  appear  to  fade 
into  a  thin  blue  haze,  yet  all  the  roofs  and  walls  seem 
to  have  the  transparency  of  alabaster. 

The  throne -room,  which  contained  the  famous  pea- 
cock throne  of  emeralds  and  gold,  is  entirely  white  and 
gold.  In  some  of  the  rooms  the  tall  marble  walls  are 
strewn  with  bouquets  of  roses,  roses  like  the  roses  of 
a  Chinese  embroidery,  with  tints  varying  from  bright 
to  pale  pink,  and  whose  every  petal  is  faintly  edged 
with  gold.  In  other  rooms  there  are  blue  flowers  of 
lapis  and  of  turquoise.  Each  room  generally  opens 
into  the  adjoining  one,  only  being  separated  from  it 
by  one  of  those  lace-like  marble  plaques  which  replace 
the  hangings  of  our  uncouth  abodes. 

The  famine-bearing  wind  harries  the  thickets  of  the 
lonely  garden  and  scatters  their  last  leaves  like  an 


A  CITIZEN  OF  DELHI. 


TOWARDS   BENARES  241 

autumn  tempest ;  whirlwinds  of  dead  leaves  invade 
the  silent  palace  and  the  white  pavement  where  the 
precious  throne  once  stood. 


IV 
AMONG  THE   RUINS 

The  land  in  which  the  Mogul  emperors  lived  is  now 
but  a  winding-sheet  for  ruined  towns  and  palaces. 
Egypt  herself  cannot  boast  so  many  ruins  on  her  sands 
as  this  decaying  region.  There,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Nile,  is  the  land  of  monstrous  granite  temples  ;  here, 
chiselled  marbles  and  fretted  stones  lie  like  lost  souls 
scattered  about  these  sad  wastes. 

India,  cauldron  in  which  the  first  human  intelligence 
seethed,  is  filled  with  innumerable  wrecks  of  bygone 
days,  whose  beauty  and  profusion  plunge  us  into  be- 
wilderment. Besides  the  towns  which  fell  into  decay 
through  wars  and  massacres,  there  are  others  whose 
magnificence  rose  into  being  at  the  whim  of  some 
sovereign,  but  never  was  completed.  There  are  palaces, 
too,  raised  by  a  myriad  workmen  to  gratify  the  longing 
of  some  sultana  which  have  never  known  an  occupant. 

Between  Delhi  and  that  capital  of  olden  times  where 
the  great  tower  of  Kuth  stands,  built  of  pink  granite, 
the  road  is  lined  with  ruined  fortresses  and  phantom 
towns,  great  crested  walls  with  moats  and  drawbridges. 
Within,  no  living  soul.  The  silence  is  only  broken 
by  monkeys  rushing  through  the  bushes  or  clambering 
up  the  heaps  of  fallen  stones. 

There  are  cemeteries,  too,  almost  boundless  in  ex- 
tent. For  miles  the  earth  has  been  filled  with  the  dead, 
and  funeral  pavilions  and  tombs  of  all  ages  are  heaped 
together  in  a  bewildering  labyrinth  of  crumbling  ruins. 

Some  tombs,  hidden  among  the  myriad  trees  whose 
wreckage  strews  the  ground,  are  still  kept  up  in  a 
spirit  of  splendid  piety,  but  it  would  be  impossible  to 
find  the  paths  which  lead  up  to  them  through  the 
heaps  of  stone  and  holes  and  yawning  pits  were  they 
not  mapped  out  by  swarms  of  maimed  and  leprous 

16 


242  TOWARDS  BENARES 

beggars  who  solicit  alms  from  the  passing  pilgrims. 
It  is  strange,  indeed,  to  one  who  follows  these  dusty 
tracks  to  come  upon  some  marvellous  mausoleum  with 
walls  of  fretted  marble  hung  with  red  silks  and  decked 
with  carpets,  over  which  bunches  of  fresh  gardenias 
and  tuberoses  are  strewn.  The  most  splendid  of  these 
are  the  tombs  of  the  fakirs  and  the  dervishes  of  the 
olden  days,  who  lived  lives  of  purposed  wretchedness  and 
complete  renunciation,  and  to  whose  memory  sultans 
of  long  ago  paid  such  madly  extravagant  honours. 

The  rose-coloured  granite  tower  was  visible  on  the 
horizon  of  this  famine-stricken  land  long  before  the 
ramparts  and  the  chiselled  palaces  could  be  descried. 
These  nestle  at  its  feet  hidden  amidst  the  undulations 
of  a  stony  land,  where  only  goats  and  shepherds  dwell. 

It  is  almost  the  oppressive  hour  of  noon  as  I  pass 
through  double  gates  which  lead  into  this  phantom 
town.  A  vast  and  melancholy  space,  so  vast  that  its 
extent  cannot  be  gauged,  extends  before  me.  All 
around  are  trees  dying  of  drought,  whose  yellow  leaves 
are  scattered  by  the  parching  wind,  and  shapeless 
heaps  of  stones,  domes,  and  towers,  so  worn  as  to  re- 
semble rocks.  By  the  foot  of  the  tower  there  are  those 
remains  of  pompous  magnificence  which  mark  that  this 
was  once  royal  ground. 

All  styles  are  mingled  in  these  glorious  relics.  So 
many  wars  and  invasions  have  passed  over  the  place, 
so  many  buildings  have  been  razed  to  the  ground,  and 
have  sprung  up  anew,  phoenix-like  from  their  ruins, 
that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  retrace  the  history  of 
this  land  of  shades. 

I  take  refuge  from  the  midday  heat  in  the  shadow  of 
a  palace  which  belonged  to  a  king  whose  name  is  now 
but  a  legend,  and  I  occupy  the  corner  of  a  high  gallery, 
a  sort  of  loggia  overlooking  a  hall  filled  with  great 
square  columns  which  are  emblazoned  with  archaic 
sculptures.  Here  for  some  hours  I  may  sleep  or  muse 
alone,  or  seek  to  penetrate  the  spirit  that  once  animated 
these  ruins,  or  if  not  that  the  thoughts  of  the  animals 
which  now  inhabit  it.  Outside,  the  torrid  sun  parches 


THE  ROSE-COLOURED  GRANITE  TOWER 


TOWARDS  BENARES  243 

the  desert  lands  :  the  grasshoppers  are  still,  and  the 
flies  no  longer  busy.  Only  from  time  to  time  the  screech 
of  a  parrot  returning  to  its  shady  nest  among  the 
carvings,  or  the  rustling  of  dry  leaves  chased  past  the 
pillars  by  the  famine  wind.  Nothing  else  is  to  be  heard. 

The  ceiling  is  made  of  long  superposed  granite 
blocks,  placed  in  pyramids  like  the  beams  of  our  old 
timber-work.  This  kind  of  roofing  denotes  a  period 
when  men  knew  nothing  about  building  vaults  or 
domes,  or  if  they  did  know  of  them,  mistrusted  such 
work.  Under  me  lies  a  forest  of  superb  monolithic 
blocks  whose  squared  frontages  carry  the  mind  back 
to  the  earliest  Hindoo  period.  From  the  dim  corner 
where  I  sit  I  can  look  out  through  the  large  bayed 
openings,  and  I  see  the  red  sandstones,  the  fiery 
granites  and  the  porphyries  below,  enkindled  in  the 
blazing  sun.  Wonderful  porticoes  rear  their  many- 
pointed  arches  inscribed  with  Kufic  characters  into 
the  clear  transparent  air.  An  obelisk  of  black  iron, 
covered  with  Sanskrit  writing,  and  dating  from  an 
unknown  age,  rises  out  from  among  the  tombs  from  a 
paved  place  which  was  the  central  court  of  a  most  sacred 
mosque,  once  said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world. 

I  hear  a  light  trotting  on  the  pavement  below. 
Three  goats,  followed  by  their  kids,  enter  the  palace 
and  without  any  hesitation  clamber  up  to  the  high 
gallery  where  I  am  standing.  Here,  full  of  unconcern, 
they  lie  down  to  take  their  midday  nap.  Crows  and 
turtle-doves  also  come  to  the  cool  shade  and  settle 
down  and  sleep. 

Then  all  is  silence,  unbroken  even  by  the  sound  of 
the  dead  leaves,  for  the  wind  slumbers  now  like  all  else. 

At  the  back  of  my  loggia  there  is  a  little  window, 
from  which  I  ought  to  see  the  sky,  but  I  only  see  a 
white  embroidery  on  a  rosy  background,  which  seems 
to  be  suspended  in  the  air  at  an  uncertain  distance 
from  me.  It  is  the  great  tower  whose  marble  in- 
crustations gleam  in  the  rosy  granite. 

This  is  the  last  halting-place  before  I  reach  Benares, 
the  town  which  I  so  dread.  I  shall  be  there  in  two 


244  TOWARDS    BENARES 

days,  for  it  has  been  impossible  for  me  to  dally  longer, 
and  I  must  face  the  supreme  disenchantment  which  I 
feel  sure  awaits  me.  The  peace  that  hovers  about 
these  ruins  steals  over  me,  and  I  think  of  the  House 
of  the  Masters,  whose  strange  and  frugal  hospitality  I 
am  soon  to  share. 

The  burning  hazes  beckon  me  to  sleep  and  dreams, 
but  my  mind  is  still  occupied  with  the  great  tower 
which  rises  near  at  hand.  A  king  built  it,  so  the 
legend  tells,  to  satisfy  the  whim  of  his  daughter,  who 
wished  to  see  the  wanderings  of  a  far-distant  river. 
As  I  draw  nearer  the  window,  the  tower  comes  into 
full  view,  and  I  see  its  rosy  shaft  rising  into  the  sky 
implacably  pure.  The  eye  is  bewildered  by  its  height 
and  slimness,  which  surpass  those  of  all  known  towers 
or  minarets,  and  the  swelling  of  the  base  gives  it  an 
oddly  curved  appearance.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  a 
monument  so  splendid  and  so  marvellously  preserved 
rising  from  this  desert  strewn  with  ruins. 

The  stone  is  of  so  fine  a  grain  and  such  a  polish  that 
centuries  have  never  tarnished  its  perfection,  and  its 
fresh  colour  is  matchlessly  preserved.  The  flutings 
which  traverse  the  entire  length  of  the  column  look 
like  folds  in  a  fabric,  or  tucks  in  some  lady's  silken 
gown,  and  the  whole  tower  is  pleated  with  them  like  a 
closed  parasol.  One  thinks  also  of  a  stack  of  organ 
pipes,  or  of  a  bundle  of  huge  palm  trunks,  knotted  at 
intervals  with  embroidered  bands,  which  are  the  granite 
galleries  loaded  with  Islamite  inscriptions  in  white 
mosaic.  Drowsiness  comes  over  me.  Suddenly  there 
are  footsteps  beneath  me,  hasty  footsteps  unexpectedly 
breaking  the  long  silence.  Some  twelve  men  appear, 
glowing  with  crude  colours,  whose  blues  and  whites 
and  golds  break  the  monotony  of  the  great  ruddy 
stones.  They  are  Mussulmans  from  the  north,  Afghans 
with  pointed  caps  which  fall  over  their  faces,  so  that 
only  their  hooked  noses  and  jet-black  beards  are 
visible.  They  walk  quickly  and  have  a  false  and  cruel 
look.  Concealed  in  my  unsuspected  hiding-place  I  can 
watch  them  at  my  leisure,  and  it  is  soon  evident  that 


TOWARDS  BENARES  245 

they  are  only  pilgrims  who  have  come  on  some  pious 
errand.  They  pause  reverently  before  the  porticoes  of 
the  ruined  mosques  or  stop  to  kiss  the  tombs,  and  then, 
always  with  the  same  haste,  move  farther  off,  and  at 
last  disappear  among  the  ruins. 

It  is  now  three  o'clock  and  life's  pulses  stir  once 
more.  The  green  parrots  peer  from  their  holes,  and 
with  beaks  hooked  into  the  carvings  look  downwards. 
Then  they  fly  off  with  the  fierce  cry  of  newly-wakened 
life.  The  three  goats  awaken  too,  and  take  their  kids 
to  pasture  amid  the  short  and  burnt -up  grass.  I  also 
descend  and  wander  in  the  phantom  town. 

Ruined  houses,  ruined  temples,  ruins  of  mausoleums 
and  of  palaces  ;  and,  here  and  there,  lean  flocks  that 
nibble  among  the  stones,  and  spread  out  over  this 
vast,  melancholy,  and  walled-in  plain. 

The  shepherds  play  on  muted  pipes,  as  if  saddened 
by  the  presence  of  the  crumbling  temples  ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  desolation  the  rose  tower  seems  to 
keep  a  sleepless  vigil. 

There  are  still  balconies  overlooking  open  spaces 
which  once  were  avenues,  loggias  jutting  from  the 
crumbling  walls  from  which  beauties  of  bygone 
ages  could  see  elephants  passing  in  purple  pomp,  pro- 
cessions of  mailed  warriors,  and  the  moving  crowds  of 
the  wondrous  olden  days. 

Oh  !  the  sadness  of  these  balconies  and  these  deserted 
streets. 

v 

t     THE    FUNERAL    PYRES 

A  gray  winter's  evening  on  the  Ganges.  The  night- 
mists  rise  from  the  sacred  river  and  dull  the  rays  of 
the  declining  sun.  The  dark  outlines  of  the  crumbling 
palaces  and  temples  of  Benares  rear  their  black  shadows 
against  the  still  luminous  Western  sky. 

Amongst  the  slumbering  boats  mine  is  the  only  one 
that  is  in  motion.  We  drift  slowly,  at  the  foot  of  the 
sacred  town,  amidst  the  shadows  of  monstrous  temples 


246  TOWARDS  BENARES 

and  of  frowning  palaces.  Three  rainless  famine  years 
have  so  lowered  the  water's  level  that  the  height  of 
the  buildings  above  it  seems  increased,  and  the  very 
foundations  of  Benares  are  uncovered.  Fragments  of 
palaces  which  have  been  submerged  for  centuries  rear 
their  heads  among  the  motionless  barques,  and  ruins 
of  temples  that  have  been  swallowed  up  and  forgotten 
come  to  light.  The  old  Ganges  bares  its  bed  of  mystery 
and  desolation. 

The  ravaged  banks  attest  the  mad  rages  of  a  sacred 
river  that  is  both  life-giver  and  life-destroyer,  and  that, 
like  the  god  Siva,  begets  but  to  destroy.  Nothing  can 
resist  the  terrible  force  of  its  floods  during  the  rainy 
season  ;  stately  walls  of  granite  and  whole  embank- 
ments have  slipped  in  a  solid  mass  into  the  stream, 
where,  fantastic  forms,  they  rest,  as  though  hurled 
there  by  an  earthquake.  Security  is  felt  only  some 
thirty  or  forty  feet  away  from  highwater  mark,  and  it 
is  there  that  the  first  windows,  balconies,  and  miradors 
are  to  be  seen.  Below  that  the  Ganges  is  the  master, 
and  everything  is  every  year  submerged.  All  build- 
ings are  constructed  with  that  fact  kept  in  mind  by  the 
builders  ;  kiosks,  massive  as  casemates,  sheltering 
heavy  and  thick-set  gods,  cyclopean  embankments  and 
monstrous  blocks  that  seem  unmovable,  but  which 
sometimes  totter  in  the  fury  of  the  waters. 

The  pyramids  of  countless  temples  rise  into  the 
evening  air,  high  above  the  houses  and  palaces,  and, 
like  those  of  Rajput,  resemble  carved  stone  yew  trees, 
but  there  is  red,  dull  red,  mingled  with  a  dying  gold. 
These  are  so  frequent  as  to  cover  all  Benares.  Along 
the  whole  length  of  the  town,  which  follows  the  bend 
of  the  river  in  a  matchless  crescent,  granite  steps,  like 
those  of  a  pedestal,  descend  from  the  habitations  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  sacred  stream.  To-day  the  lowest 
steps  are  visible,  portent  of  famine  and  death,  for  they 
are  only  uncovered  in  tears  of  drought.  The  majestic 
stairways  are  now  deserted  ;  up  to  noon  they  were 
thronged  by  crowds  of  merchants  selling  fruits  and 
grasses  for  the  sacred  cattle,  or  flower-sellers  whose 


TOWARDS   BENARES  247 

stalls  were  heaped  with  the  garlands  and  bouquets 
which  worshippers  offer  to  the  river  in  token  of  respect. 
The  parasols  of  dried  grass,  under  which  everybody 
shelters,  are  still  there,  open  and  resting  on  their 
handles,  parasols  without  folds  which  resemble  metal 
discs.  The  terraces  and  stairways  are  so  thickly  covered 
with  these  as  to  look  like  a  battle-field  with  the  buck- 
lers planted  in  limitless  array.  A  dull  twilight  comes 
on  and  the  air  grows  chill.  I  had  not  thought  to  see 
this  wintry  aspect  and  such  gray  skies  here.  My  boat 
drifts  at  the  current's  will,  sometimes  grazing  the 
shores,  whose  edges  are  overhung  by  gloomy  palaces. 

We  come  to  a  sinister-looking  spot  situated  amid 
the  ruins  of  overthrown  palaces.  On  the  blackened 
soil  there  are  little  heaps  of  sticks  which  ragged  men 
of  evil  look  are  trying  to  light,  and  these  little  heaps, 
which  smoke  but  will  not  burn,  are  of  a  peculiar  long 
and  narrow  shape — funeral  piles  for  the  dead. 

A  dead  body  is  laid  on  each  of  them  with  feet  point- 
ing towards  the  river,  and,  on  drawing  nigh,  I  can  see 
the  toes  projecting  among  the  sticks.  How  small  the 
heaps  are  and  how  little  wood  it  must  take  to  burn  a 
corpse  !  My  Hindoo  boatman  explains  to  me  that 
these  are  the  pyres  of  the  poor  and  that  the  wood  is 
damp  ;  that  they  had  no  money  to  buy  any  more. 

Now  the  hour  of  Brahma  is  at  hand  and  evening 
worship  begins  all  along  the  stream.  Brahmins  draped 
in  thin  veils  descend  from  all  the  stairways,  hastening 
to  fetch  the  sacred  water  for  their  rites  and  ablutions 
such  as  their  rank  prescribes.  Multitudes  throng  the 
granite  steps,  just  now  so  deserted,  and  the  thousand 
little  rafts  anchored  in  the  shadow  of  the  temples  or 
the  palaces,  and  the  thousand  bamboo  resting-places 
made  for  the  hour  of  prayer,  are  crowded  with  dreamers 
who  sit  motionless  in  the  posture  which  time  has  con- 
secrated. The  thoughts  of  the  praying  multitudes  are 
soon  lost  in  the  unfathomable  depths  of  the  world  be- 
yond, that  mysterious  beyond  into  which  our  ephemeral 
personalities  must  shortly  melt. 

In  the  quarter  of  the  dead  and  near  the  smoking 


248  TOWARDS  BENARES 

pyres  two  other  human  forms  are,  each  resting  on  a 
frail  litter.  They  are  wrapped  in  muslin,  and  their 
bodies  are  half  plunged  into  the  river.  These,  like  the 
living,  are  taking  their  bath  in  the  sacred  stream,  their 
one  last  supreme  bath  before  being  placed  on  the  piles 
of  wood  which  are  now  being  prepared. 

The  mists  of  evening  settle  on  the  opposite  shore,  a 
flat  plain  of  mud  and  grass  annually  inundated  by  the 
Ganges.  Gradually  these  vapours  take  shape,  as  may 
be  seen  in  rainy  skies,  and  the  river  banks  are  blotted 
out.  I  look  upon  the  crescent  of  the  sacred  city,  rising 
into  the  air,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  its  buildings  have 
ranged  themselves  like  the  spectators  of  a  theatre  to 
watch  the  clouds  that  assembled  at  their  feet. 

A  young  fakir,  whose  long  hair  falls  upon  his 
shoulders,  stands  by  the  abode  of  the  dead  in  a  rigid  at- 
titude, with  his  head  turned  towards  the  smoking  heaps 
of  wood  and  their  gruesome  burdens.  Though  covered 
with  white  dust  he  is  still  beautiful  and  muscular. 
His  chest  is  decked  with  a  garland  of  marigolds,  such  a 
garland  as  the  people  here  cast  upon  the  river's  breast. 

A  little  way  above  the  funeral  heaps  some  five  or 
six  persons  crouch  upon  the  frieze  of  an  old  palace, 
which  fell  into  the  river  long  ago.  Their  heads  are 
wrapped  in  veils,  and,  like  the  fakir,  they  stare  fixedly 
at  their  kinsman  who  is  being  burned. 

Two  people  especially,  who  seem  to  have  the  crouch- 
ing attitude  that  betokens  old  age,  look  anxiously  at 
the  smallest  of  the  pyres.  It  is  only  a  little  boy  of  ten 
years  old,  as  my  Hindoo  boatman  tells  me  after  inquir- 
ing from  people  standing  on  the  shore,  but  all  the  same 
they  have  brought  too  little  wood  for  the  purpose  of 
burning  his  body.  The  smoke  mounts  up  to  the  mo- 
tionless pair,  the  smoke  of  their  little  one  who  now 
begins  to  burn,  for  the  attendant  has  fanned  the  flame 
with  his  coarse  loin-cloth.  Temples  and  palaces  look 
calmly  on  this  blackened  resting-place,  and  in  the 
hazy  air  their  magnificence  seems  to  mock  these  slow 
cremations  of  the  poor  whose  misery  accompanies 
them  even  in  death.  A  new  occupant  for  the  funeral 


TOWARDS  BENARES  249 

pyres  is  seen  at  the  top  of  the  great  staircase.  A  fifth 
body  emerges  from  a  dark  passage  and  journeys  to 
the  Ganges  where  its  ashes  will  be  cast.  On  a  litter 
of  bamboo  branches  six  half-nude  and  ragged  men  of 
lowly  caste  carry  the  corpse,  feet  foremost,  down  the 
steep  incline.  No  one  follows,  no  one  weeps  ;  and 
children  on  their  way  to  bathe  skip  merrily  round  as 
if  they  saw  nothing.  It  is  only  the  soul  that  counts  at 
Benares,  and  when  that  has  fled  the  rest  is  hastily  dis- 
posed of.  It  is  only  the  poor  who  accompany  the  dead, 
fearing  lest  there  may  not  be  wood  enough  or  that  the 
attendants  may  throw  unburnt  remains  into  the  river. 

A  rose-coloured  muslin  of  gorgeous  design  covers 
this  corpse,  and  white  gardenias  and  red  hibiscus 
flowers  are  knotted  round  its  loins.  It  has  the  form 
of  a  woman,  which  the  flowers  also  show,  and  admir- 
able, too,  in  spite  of  the  chill  touch  of  death,  does  the 
form  reveal  itself.  "  The  daughter  of  a  rich  house," 
my  boatman  says.  "  Look  at  the  beautiful  wood  which 
they  have  brought." 

To  await  her  coming  I  tell  my  boatman  to  stop  upon 
the  yellow,  troubled,  and  slimy  waters  of  the  Ganges, 
where  filth  and  weeds  are  always  cloaked  by  flowers. 
Countless  tuberoses,  Indian  pinks,  marigolds,  and 
necklets  of  the  yellow  flower,  which  are  daily  offered 
to  the  sacred  river,  float  down  this  foul -smelling  water. 
Golden  blossoms  cover  the  scum  that  clings  to  the 
banks  and  mingle  with  the  human  ashes  in  the  fellow- 
ship of  decay. 

Entrusted  to  the  common  men  who  bear  her  like  a 
thing  of  no  account,  the  body  of  the  beautiful  dead 
woman  comes  down. 

When  she  has  reached  the  edge  of  the  water,  close 
by  my  boat,  the  porters  place  her  on  the  muddy  shore, 
with  half  the  body  in  the  water  for  her  final  bath. 
One  of  the  men  bends  over  her,  and  with  some  trace  of 
respect  uncovers  the  face,  that  she  may  take  a  supreme 
last  look  at  the  river.  Then,  following  the  prescribed 
rites,  stoops  and  fills  the  hollow  of  his  hand  with  the 
Ganges  waters,  which  he  pours  into  her  mouth.  I  can 


250  TOWARDS  BENARES 

now  see  her  long  closed  eyes,  with  their  dark  fringes, 
and  her  straight  and  delicate  nose  and  her  full  cheeks. 
Lips  of  an  exquisite  shape  are  half  closed  on  her  pearly 
teeth.  She  must  have  been  very  beautiful,  and  no 
doubt  that  some  evil  chance  came  to  cut  her  off  in 
the  full  bloom  of  youth,  for  she  has  changed  so  little. 
The  pink  muslin  in  which  she  is  wrapped  has  become 
wet  and  clings  transparently  to  her,  clings  to  her  bosom 
and  loins  and  does  not  hide  her  matchless  nudity.  .  .  . 
To  think  that  all  this  loveliness  should  have  been  given 
to  common  porters,  and  that  fire  will  claim  it  soon  !  It 
is  now  the  turn  of  one  of  the  other  two  waiting  in  the 
sacred  stream,  a  man  huddled  in  a  white  muslin  wrap, 
whom  they  carry  to  the  pyre.  He  has  not  stiffened, 
and  his  head  rolls  from  side  to  side  before  it  settles  on 
the  wooden  pillow.  Now  they  cover  him  with  branches, 
and  now  set  fire  to  the  bottom  of  the  pile.  As  for  the 
little  boy,  he  is  still  burning  badly,  and  his  black  smoke 
enfolds  the  motionless  pair  who  stand  watching. 

It  will  soon  be  time  for  the  birds  to  rest,  but  it  even 
seems  to  me  that  they  are  more  plentiful  in  Benares 
than  in  other  parts  of  India.  Swarms  of  crows,  utter- 
ing hoarse  cries,  and  clouds  of  pigeons  wheel  round 
and  round,  and  each  temple  tower  has  its  particular 
crowd,  flying  in  circles  like  stones  hurled  from  a  sling. 
The  deepening  river-mists  grow  colder,  and  the  odour 
of  decay  is  ranker  in  the  evening  air. 

I  should  like  to  stay  longer  to  see  them  place  the 
young  goddess  on  her  pyre,  but  that  will  not  be  for  a 
long  while  yet,  and  the  damp,  transparent  muslin 
almost  makes  it  embarrassing  to  look  further  at  her.  It 
seems  sacrilege  to  look  at  her  since  she  is  dead.  No  ! 
Let  us  away.  I  will  return  later  when  her  time  has  come. 

What  a  tireless  destroyer,  the  Ganges !  So  many 
palaces  have  fallen  into  its  waters,  whole  frontages 
have  slipped  away  without  breaking,  and  lie  there  half 
submerged  ;  and  so  many  temples  !  Those  that  are 
built  too  near  the  water  have  their  towers  twisted  like 
the  leaning  tower  of  Pisa  and  are  irremediably  under- 
mined. Only  those  which  are  situated  higher  up  and 


TOWARDS  BENARES  251 

whose  basements  have  been  protected  by  heaps  of 
granite  or  by  old  substructures  have  kept  their  red  or 
golden  towers  erect,  but  what  a  strange  aspect  these 
towers  have  !  Seeking  a  comparison,  I  might  have 
said,  "  a  churchyard  yew  tree,"  but  the  aspect  of  these 
towers  is  stranger  than  that,  for  there  are  bundles  of 
little  steeples,  and  myriads  of  tiny  spires,  all  resem- 
bling each  other,  and  of  the  unvarying  traditional  form 
for  which  no  parallel  can  be  found  in  the  range  of 
Western  architecture. 

All  Brahma's  people  are  now  gathered  by  the  deep 
water,  and  the  thousand  little  rafts  bend  under  the 
weight  of  the  praying  multitudes.  Gray  staircases, 
foundations,  and  mud-coloured  walls,  which  seem  the 
bared  roots  of  the  sacred  city,  tower  above  the  people, 
whose  hands  are  joined  in  prayer,  or  who  throw  offer- 
ings of  flowers  into  the  river. 

My  barque  leisurely  ascends  the  stream  and  passes  a 
spot  where  lonely  old  palaces  congregate,  and  where 
there  are  no  rafts  moored  to  the  shore.  (All  the  rajahs 
of  the  surrounding  country  have  a  palace  on  the  Ganges 
where  they  seek  a  retreat  from  time  to  time.) 

The  massive  walls  rear  straight  into  the  air  without 
interruption  ;  the  windows,  the  balconies,  and  the  life 
of  these  impenetrable  buildings  only  showing  them- 
selves at  a  higher  level. 

There  is  music  within,  this  evening,  a  stifled,  groan- 
ing breath  of  music,  and  bagpipes,  which  have  a  haut- 
bois  note,  wail  forth  thin  melancholy  sound.  Sometimes 
it  is  but  a  single  phrase,  a  lamentation  which  rises  and 
falls  ;  then  there  is  silence,  perhaps  broken  by  the  croak 
of  a. raven,  and  from  a  neighbouring  palace  an  answer- 
ing plaint  is  heard.  Tom-toms  resound  with  measured 
blows,  like  the  slow  tolling  of  a  passing  bell.  Oh  !  the 
mystery,  the  unspeakable  sadness  of  these  sounds, 
which  float  over  my  head  as  my  boat  glides  on  these 
death-tainted  waters.  To  me  it  sounds  like  the  death- 
wail  for  the  young  girl  whose  image  is  still  before  my 
eyes  ;  the  swan-song  of  so  many  other  beings  and  things 
that  are  no  more. 


252  TOWARDS  BENARES 

I  had  not  foreseen  the  gray  skies  and  the  wintry 
aspect  of  this  sacred  city,  nor  had  I  thought  that  I 
should  find  the  old  self  of  former  days  reviving  in  me, 
ever  a  prey  to  the  allurements  of  the  new  and  strange, 
and  the  seductions  of  the  outer  world.  I  had  hoped  to 
find  peace  and  deliverance  at  the  house  of  the  Masters  in 
the  hallowed  air  of  Benares,  this  city  that  is  as  the  heart 
of  a  sacred  land.  My  promised  initiation  commences 
to-morrow,  but  in  spite  of  this  I  feel  more  than  ever  en- 
thralled by  all  that  is  beautiful  and  transitory,  and  by 
the  things  of  the  kingdom  which  owns  Death  as  lord. 

It  is  quite  dark  as  I  return  to  the  pyres,  and  the  birds 
no  longer  fly  in  circles,  but  have  settled  in  long  rows 
on  the  cornices  of  the  palaces  and  temples,  forming 
black  cordons  which  still  tremble  with  the  last  flutter- 
ing of  their  wings.  The  towers  of  the  Brahmin  temples 
lose  their  sharpness  of  outline  and  look  like  black 
cypress  trees  rearing  their  heads  into  the  pale  sky. 

My  boat,  with  its  train  of  yellow  flowers  and  grasses, 
has  come  back  to  the  still  waters,  which  now  reek  more 
strongly  with  a  deathly  and  insipid  odour.  In  order  to 
reach  the  place  where  the  black  smoke  from  the  funeral 
pyres  ascends,  I  have  to  pass  the  praying  crowds,  and 
to  thread  my  way  among  rafts  laden  with  motionless 
Brahmins.  Yet,  as  my  boat  floats  down  the  river, 
these  men,  in  ecstatic  attitudes,  with  their  burning 
eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  never  see  me  as  I  brush  past 
them.  Their  dust-coloured  faces  only  seem  to  me  like 
some  far-distant  vision. 

I  reach  the  quarter  of  the  dead  too  late.  A  great 
pyre  is  flaming,  and  whirling  sparks  and  tongues  of 
fire  ascend  into  the  air.  The  young  girl  is  in  the  midst 
of  it,  and  nothing  can  be  seen  of  her  but  one  ghastly 
foot,  whose  extended  toes  seem  to  tell  of  agonies  of 
suffering,  standing  out  blackly  on  a  red  background 
of  fire. 

Four  more  persons  have  gathered  on  the  walls  which 
overlook  the  burning  ghat,  too  closely  veiled  for  their 
features  to  be  recognized.  They  sit  and  look  with  tran- 
quillity that  almost  seems  indifference:  relatives,  no 


TOWARDS  BENARES  253 

doubt,  perhaps  even  the  parents  from  whom  she  in- 
herited her  matchless  beauty. 

How  much  must  these  beliefs  (into  which  I  am  to  be 
initiated  to-morrow)  change  these  people's  views  of  life 
and  death  !  A  soul  has  passed  away,  a  soul  that  scarce 
knew  itself,  and  which,  moreover,  was  not  akin  to 
theirs,  a  soul,  maybe,  that  had  been  conscious  for 
centuries  and  centuries,  and  had  but  taken  fleeting 
shape  in  this  daughter  of  their  flesh.  Later,  no  doubt, 
they  will  meet  again,  but  much  later,  when  ages  shall 
have  run  their  appointed  course. 

One  of  the  two  poor  people  who  were  crouching  on 
the  wall  to  watch  the  burning  of  their  little  boy  rises, 
and,  unveiling  his  face  so  as  better  to  see,  approaches 
the  little  heap.  The  glare  from  the  young  girl's  funeral 
pyre  lights  up  the  features  of  an  emaciated  old  woman. 
Is  he  quite  burnt  ?  she  seems  to  ask.  She  is  very  old, 
a  grandmother  rather  than  a  mother,  for  mysterious 
sympathies  and  tendernesses  are  often  seen  between 
grandparents  and  grandchildren.  But  is  the  body 
totally  consumed  ?  Her  poor  eyes  are  tortured  by  the 
thought  that  they  did  not  have  enough  money  to  buy 
the  necessary  wood,  and  that  the  pitiless  attendants 
might  throw  some  tatters  of  unburnt  flesh  into  the  river. 
She  stoops  again  anxiously  over  the  smouldering 
heap,  while  the  attendant  moves  the  embers  with  a 
stick  to  convince  her  that  all  has  been  duly  consumed. 
Then  she  makes  a  sign.  "  Yes,  all  is  over.  You  can 
throw  the  rest  into  the  river."  On  her  face,  however, 
I  can  see  the  eternal  human  agony  that  is  just  the  same 
here  as  it  is  with  us,  that  agony  which  waits  for  us  all 
in  spite  of  our  courage  or  our  nebulous  beliefs.  Doubt- 
less this  grandmother  loved  the  small  transitory  form 
which  has  just  been  destroyed,  and  doted  on  its  face, 
its  expression,  its  smile.  Her  soul  cannot  have  been 
sufficiently  detached,  and  her  Brahmin  insusceptibility 
must  have  been  at  fault,  for  she  is  weeping. 

Even  the  Christian  faith,  which  is  the  kindest  of  all, 
does  not  promise  to  give  us  back  those  childish 
smiles  and  the  kind  eyes  of  white-haired  grandams. 


254  TOWARDS  BENARES 

The  attendant  takes  a  wooden  shovel,  and  scatters 
the  embers  of  the  pauper  pyre  into  the  river. 

On  the  neighbouring  heap  the  foot  of  the  young  girl 
falls  at  last  into  the  ashes. 

VI 
THE   HOUSE   WHERE   THE   MASTERS   DWELL 

At  the  far  end  of  an  old  garden  stands  a  low  and 
modest  Indian  house  on  which  time  has  left  few  traces. 
The  whitewashed  walls  and  the  green  sunblinds  remind 
me  of  the  houses  of  my  birthplace,  but  this  roof  slopes 
forward  so  as  to  form  a  veranda,  and  the  white  columns 
which  support  it  tell  of  the  land  of  eternal  sunshine. 
But  the  garden,  although  neglected,  is  neither  tropical 
nor  strange,  and  the  overhanging  Bengal  rose  bushes 
shelter  sweet  old  homely  walks  which  resemble  ours. 

The  masters  of  the  house  have  grave  and  beautiful 
faces,  the  faces  of  a  Christ  with  bronzed  skin  and  black 
hair,  and  they  welcome  me  with  soft  and  radiant  smiles 
and  whispered  words.  Yet  sometimes  it  seemed  as  if 
their  thoughts  were  no  longer  with  me,  and  that  they 
had  stolen  away — into  the  other  world  to  join  their 
souls,  that  had  already  taken  refuge  there. 

The  House  of  the  Masters  is  always  open  to  those 
who  care  to  come,  and  a  kindly  welcome  awaits  all. 

And  yet  with  what  deep  and  unspeakable  terror  I 
knocked  at  their  door,  feeling  that  this  was  the  supreme 
test,  and  that,  if  I  found  nothing  here,  I  should  never 
find  anything  anywhere  else. 

The  Masters  spend  their  time  in  work  and  medita- 
tion, but,  like  all  Hindoos,  share  their  houses  with  birds 
and  beasts,  putting  up  with  gentle  resignation  with 
their  importunities.  Squirrels  come  in  through  the 
windows,  sparrows  build  their  nests  in  the  ceilings,  and 
the  whole  house  is  full  of  birds. 

In  an  inner  room  there  is  a  platform  covered  by  a 
white  cloth  for  the  numerous  guests,  who  sit  upon  it 
in  Indian  fashion  while  searching  for  the  hidden  things. 
Brahmins  are  crouching  there,  whose  brows  bear  the 


TOWARDS  BENARES  255 

seals  of  Vishnu  or  of  Siva,  thinkers  who  wander  bare- 
foot and  with  no  garment  but  a  coarse  cloth  wrapped 
round  their  loins,  but  who  have  looked  on  everything, 
and  for  whom  the  world  has  no  more  snares,  learned 
men  who,  in  their  contempt  of  earthly  things,  look 
like  beggars  or  labourers  of  the  fields,  but  who  have 
mastered  the  latest  and  most  transcendental  philo- 
sophies of  Europe,  and  who  say  with  tranquil  assur- 
ance :  "  Our  philosophy  begins  where  yours  ends." 

The  Masters  work  or  meditate  the  whole  day,  to- 
gether or  alone.  The  plain  tables  before  them  are 
loaded  with  those  Sanskrit  books  containing  the  secrets 
of  that  Brahminism  which  preceded  all  our  religions 
and  philosophies  by  so  many  thousand  years. 

In  these  unfathomable  books  the  old  thinkers,  those 
sages  who  had  clearer  vision  than  any  men  of  our  race 
or  age,  have  inscribed  the  sum  of  all  human  knowledge. 
To  them  the  inconceivable  was  almost  clear,  and  their 
long-forgotten  works  now  pass  our  degenerate  under- 
standing ;  and  so,  to-day,  years  of  initiation  are  re- 
quired merely  to  see,  hidden  dimty  amidst  the  obscurity 
of  the  words,  the  unfathomable  depths  beyond. 

If  there  be  any  people  who  can  understand,  it  must 
be  these  sages  of  Benares,  for  they  are  the  descendants 
of  the  wondrous  philosophers  who  wrote  these  books. 
Their  blood  is  the  same,  the  blood  of  men  who  never 
slew  and  whose  bodies  were  never  nourished  on  the 
flesh  of  other  creatures. 

Surely  their  bodies  must  be  less  earthly  and  more 
ethereal  than  ours,  and  by  their  long  heredity  of  medi- 
tation and  prayer  they  must  have  reached  subtleties 
of  perception  and  a  delicacy  of  intuition  impossible  to 
us.  But  they  simply  say  :  "  We  know  nothing  and 
simply  seek  to  learn." 

One  high  amongst  them  is  a  European  woman,  who 
has  come  here  to  seek  shelter  from  the  turmoil  of  the 
world. 

Her  face  is  still  beautiful,  though  crowned  with  silver 
hair,  and  she  lives  here,  barefooted  and  detached  from 
earthly  strife,  the  thrifty  and  austere  life  of  an  ascetic. 


256  TOWARDS  BENARES 

It  is  on  her  goodwill  that  I  have  fixed  my  hopes, 
trusting  that  she  may  throw  open  to  me  the  formidable 
gates  of  knowledge,  for  she  was  once  of  my  race  and 
understands  my  native  tongue. 

And  yet  I  am  filled  with  doubts  and  misgivings,  and 
as  if  to  entrap  her  in  a  snare  I  begin  to  speak  of  that 
other  woman  who  lived  here  so  long  among  the  Mas- 
ters, whose  tarnished  fame  had  caused  me  to  doubt,  for 
it  was  asserted  of  her  that  she  was  a  juggling  impostor. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  she  is  to  be  excused  per- 
haps ?  Her  intentions  were  good,  and  perhaps  she  only 
practised  deceit  in  order  to  bring  others  to  believe." 

"  No,  it  is  never  right  to  cheat.  Nothing  can  come 
from  falsehood,"  replied  the  woman  with  a  frank  look. 
I  feel  a  new  and  sudden  confidence  in  my  teacher. 

"  Our  principles,"  she  said  to  me  a  little  later,  "  our 
dogmas  !  We  have  none.  Amongst  the  Theosophists 
(such  is  the  name  by  which  they  call  us)  you  will  find 
Buddhists,  Brahmins,  Mussulmans,  Protestants,  Catho- 
lics, and  orthodox  people,  and  even  folks  like  you." 

"  But  what  must  I  do  to  join  you  ?  " 

"  Swear  to  regard  all  men  as  your  brothers  and  your 
equals,  and  meet  them  with  the  same  love  whether 
they  be  beggars  or  princes.  Swear  to  seek  spiritual 
truth  by  all  the  means  in  your  power.  That  is  all. 
Those  whom  you  have  lately  left  at  Madras  are  tinged 
with  Buddhism,  from  whose  cold  tenets  your  mystic 
temperament  has  recoiled.  It  is  in  esoteric  Brah- 
minism  in  its  oldest  form  that  we  find  our  light  and 
peace.  To  us  it  seems  to  offer  the  purest  form  of  truth 
which  men  may  know.  And  we  would  wish  you  to 
journey  on  our  road.  But  you  know  the  allegory  of 
'  The  Guardians  of  the  Threshold,'  those  monsters 
which  lurk  outside  the  temples  and  seek  to  terrorize  the 
neophyte  in  his  initiation.  Their  true  meaning  is  that 
all  knowledge  is  born  with  the  pangs  of  labour.  You 
know  that  we  say  that  personal  individuality  is  but  a 
faint  and  ephemeral  spark,  and  for  one  so  personal  as 
you,  this,  I  know,  will  be  hard  to  learn.  We  believe  so 
much  that  is  opposed  to  all  the  faiths  in  which  you  have 


TOWARDS  BENARES  257 

been  trained.  But  do  not  hate  us  if  we  pluck  out 
those  slumbering  hopes  which  perhaps  unconsciously 
still  sustain  you." 

"  No,  my  hopes  are  dead.     I  have  none  to  lose." 

"  Then  come  to  us.         .  " 


VII 
IN    THE    MORNING    GLORY 

The  sun  has  just  risen  from  the  plain  through  which 
old  Ganges  wanders,  a  plain  of  mud  and  vegetation  still 
overshadowed  by  the  mists  of  night ;  and  waiting  there 
for  the  first  red  rays  of  dawn  lie  the  granite  temples 
of  Benares,  the  rosy  pyramids,  the  golden  shafts,  and 
all  the  sacred  city,  extended  in  terraces,  as  if  to  catch 
the  first  light  and  deck  itself  in  the  glory  of  the  morning. 

This  is  the  hour  which,  since  the  Brahmin  faith 
began,  has  been  sacred  to  prayer  and  to  religious 
ecstasy,  and  it  is  now  that  Benares  pours  forth  all  its 
people,  all  its  flowers,  all  its  garlands,  all  its  birds, 
and  all  its  living  things  on  to  the  banks  of  the  Ganges. 
Awakened  by  the  kiss  of  the  sun,  all  that  have  re- 
ceived souls  from  Brahma  rush  joyously  down  the 
granite  steps.  The  men,  whose  faces  beam  with  calm 
serenity,  are  garbed  in  Kashmir  shawls,  some  pink, 
some  yellow,  and  some  in  the  colours  of  the  dawn. 
The  women,  veiled  with  muslins  in  the  antique  style, 
form  white  groups  along  the  road,  and  the  reflections 
from  their  copper  ewers  and  drinking-vessels  shimmer 
amongst  the  silvery  glints  of  their  many  bracelets, 
necklets,  and  the  rings  which  they  wear  round  their 
ankles.  Nobly  beautiful  both  of  face  and  gait,  they 
walk  like  goddesses,  while  the  metal  rings  on  their 
arms  and  feet  murmur  musically. 

And  to  the  river,  already  encumbered  with  garlands, 
each  one  comes  to  offer  a  new  wreath.  Some  have 
twisted  ropes  of  jasmine  flowers  which  look  like  white 
necklets,  others  garlands  of  Indian  pinks  whose  flowers 
of  golden  yellow  and  pale  sulphur  gleam  in  contrast, 
resembling  the  changing  colours  of  an  Indian  veil. 
17 


258  TOWARDS   BENARES 

And  the  birds  who  had  been  sleeping  all  along  the 
friezes  of  the  houses  and  the  palaces  awake  too  and  fill 
the  air  with  chirpings  and  with  song  in  the  mad  joy 
of  dawn. 

Turtle-doves  and  singing  birds  hasten  to  bathe  and 
drink  with  all  these  Brahmins  and  to  sport  amongst 
these  men  who  never  slay. 

In  all  the  temples  the  gods  have  their  morning 
serenades,  and  the  angry  roar  of  the  tom-toms,  the 
wail  of  the  bagpipes,  and  the  howling  of  the  sacred 
trumpets  are  heard  from  every  side. 

And  up  above  all  the  festooned  and  sculptured 
windows,  from  which  the  east  may  be  seen,  are 
thronged  with  aged  heads,  those  who  from  sickness  or 
by  reason  of  old  age  cannot  come  down,  but  who  here 
invoke  the  morning  light.  And  the  sun  bathes  them 
in  his  warm  rays. 

Naked  children  holding  each  other  by  the  hand  come 
in  gay  throngs  ;  yoghis  and  slowly-moving  fakirs  de- 
scend the  steps  ;  the  sacred  cattle  advance  with  de- 
liberate steps,  while  people  stand  respectfully  aside 
offering  them  fresh  wreaths  of  reeds  and  flowers.  They, 
too,  seem  to  look  on  the  splendours  of  the  sun,  and  in 
their  harmless  fashion  appear  to  understand  and  pray. 

Next  come  the  sheep  and  goats  ;  then  dogs  and 
monkeys  hurry  down  the  steps. 

Now  the  sun  pours  streams  of  warmth  into  the  air 
which  the  night  dews  have  chilled.  All  the  granite 
temples  scattered  on  the  steps  that  serve  as  niches  and 
altars,  some  for  Vishnu,  some  for  the  many-armed 
Ganesa,  protrude  into  the  sunlight  their  squat  little 
gods — gods  which  are  gray  with  mud,  for  they  have 
slept  many  months  under  the  troubled  waters  of  the 
river  to  which  the  ashes  of  the  dead  are  consigned. 

Now  that  the  rays  of  the  sun  are  fierce  the  people 
shelter  under  the  large  umbrellas  whose  shade  awaits 
them.  For  these  huge  parasols,  which  resemble  gigantic 
mushrooms  clustering  under  the  walls  of  the  city,  are 
always  left  open. 

Above  me  the  old  palaces  seem  to  have  grown 


mm 


nrjF^ 


BATHING  IN  THE  SACRED  WATERS,  BENARES 


TOWARDS  BENARES  259 

young,  and  the  rosy  pyramids,  the  golden  arrows,  and 
all  the  shining  weathercocks  glitter  in  the  morning  air. 

The  many  rafts  and  the  lower  steps  are  thronged 
with  Brahmins,  who,  after  setting  down  their  flowers 
and  ewers,  hasten  to  disrobe.  Pink  and  white  muslins 
and  cashmeres  of  all  colours  lie  mingled  on  the  ground, 
or  are  hung  over  bamboo  canes,  and  now  the  match- 
less nude  forms  appear,  some  of  pale  bronze,  others  of 
a  deeper  shade. 

The  men,  slim  and  of  athletic  build,  plunge  to  their 
waists  into  the  sacred  waters.  The  women,  still  wear- 
ing a  veil  of  muslin  round  their  shoulders  and  waists, 
merely  plunge  their  many-ringed  arms  and  ankles  into 
the  Ganges  ;  then  they  kneel  at  the  extremest  edge 
and  let  fall  their  long  unknotted  coils  of  hair  into  the 
water.  Then,  raising  their  heads  once  more,  they 
allow  the  water  dripping  from  their  drenched  hair  to 
fall  upon  their  necks  and  bosoms.  And  now  with  their 
tightly-clinging  draperies  they  look  like  some  statue 
of  a  "  winged  Victory,"  more  beautiful  and  more 
voluptuous  than  if  they  had  been  nude. 

From  all  sides  the  bowing  people  shower  their  gar- 
lands and  their  flowers  into  the  Ganges  ;  all  fill  their 
ewers  and  jars  and  then,  stooping,  fill  their  hollowed 
hands  and  drink.  Here  religious  feeling  reigns 
supreme,  and  no  sensual  thought  ever  seems  to  assail 
these  beauteous  mingled  forms.  They  come  into  un- 
conscious contact  with  each  other,  but  only  heed  the 
river,  the  sun,  and  the  splendour  of  the  morning  in  a 
dream  of  ecstasy. 

And  when  the  long  ritual  is  ended,  the  women  retire 
to  their  homes,  while  the  men,  seated  on  the  rafts  amid 
their  garlands,  dispose  themselves  for  prayer. 

Oh  !  the  joyful  awakenings  of  this  primeval  race, 
praying  in  daily  unison  to  God,  where  the  poorest  may 
find  room  amongst  the  splendours  of  the  sun,  the  waters, 
and  the  flowers. 

And  to  think  of  the  awakening  of  our  sordid  human 
ant-heaps,  of  the  men  who  are  a  smoke  and  iron  age, 
where,  under  our  old  and  cloudy  sky,  the  mob,  poisoned 


260  TOWARDS  BENARES 

with  alcohol  and  blasphemy,  hasten  towards  the 
murderous  mills. 

The  white  groups  of  women  mount  the  stairs  on 
their  homeward  way,  and  keeping  closely  under  the 
shadow  of  the  stone  walls  look  like  some  bas-relief  from 
the  antique.  The  water  still  drips  from  their  hair, 
which  falls  in  heavy  masses  on  the  muslin  draperies, 
and  a  bare  arm  supports  a  polished  drinking  vessel  on 
each  woman's  shoulder. 

The  men  still  remain  by  the  banks  of  the  Ganges, 
and,  seated  in  the  prescribed  fashion,  complete  their 
preparations  before  sinking  into  ecstasy.  In  honour  of 
Siva  they  trace  lines  of  dust  on  their  newly  laved  chests 
and  on  their  foreheads  paint  in  red  the  dreadful  seal. 

There  is  no  burning  now  in  the  quarter  of  the  dead, 
and  the  walls  that  surround  it  look  black  in  the  morn- 
ing light.  Two  muffled  shapes  wrapped  in  shrouds  are 
there,  but  no  one  is  busied  with  them.  One  is  already 
stretched  on  his  funeral  pyre,  but  the  other  is  still 
taking  his  last  bath  in  the  waters  of  the  Ganges,  there 
amongst  so  many  human  beings  in  the  full  strength 
and  beauty  of  life.  The  hour  of  prayer  is  at  its  full  on 
all  the  rafts  and  on  the  steps  leading  to  the  water,  and 
there  is  no  one  to  light  the  funeral  fires,  so  the  dead 
must  wait. 

On  every  face  there  is  a  strange  vacant  look.  I 
notice  eyes  which  do  not  see  and  features  that  are  fixed 
and  rigid.  Through  the  closed  fingers  of  a  young  man, 
sunken  in  mystic  contemplation,  one  can  only  see  the 
gleaming  eyes  staring  into  the  other  world.  There  are 
fakirs  covered  with  beads,  whose  souls  have  fled  from 
their  heedless  bodies,  and  old  men  whose  limbs  are 
covered  with  dust. 

By  the  side  of  the  water  there  is  one  who  prays  with 
upturned  eyes.  He  is  seated  on  the  skin  of  a  gazelle, 
crouching  there  motionless  like  a  statue  of  Cakya- 
Mouni,  with  crossed  legs  and  knees  that  touch  the 
ground,  the  long,  bony  right  hand  clasping  his  right 
foot.  He  is  old,  and  the  colour  of  the  wet  garment 
glued  to  his  emaciated  form  tells  that  he  is  a  yoghi. 


TOWARDS  BENARES  261 

Wrapped  in  a  cloth  of  pale  rosy  orange,  he  prays 
silently  :  his  glassy  eyes  and  livid  face  on  which  the 
seal  of  Siva  has  been  newly  traced  stare  fixedly  at  the 
sun  with  an  expression  of  ineffable  happiness. 

By  his  side  stands  a  young  man,  who  from  time  to 
time  bends  forward  to  fill  his  hollowed  hands  that  he 
may  refresh  the  many  flowers  strewn  round  the  holy 
man,  or  that  he  may  drench  the  ascetic's  flame-coloured 
robe.  That  he  may  dream  more  sweetly,  two  smiling 
boys  are  posted  on  the  stones  above  him  to  play  him 
music.  One  breathes  into  a  sea-shell,  which  sighs 
"  hou,  hou,"  like  the  sound  of  a  far-off  horn,  the  other 
softly  beats  a  little  tom-tom.  There  are  many  crows 
around  gazing  with  interest  at  the  old  fakir  seated  on 
his  gazelle  skin,  the  head  and  horns  of  which  dip  to 
the  river's  edge. 

Women  and  children  who  are  going  home  approach 
to  offer  him  their  greetings  and  pass  with  an  affection- 
ate smile  or  a  murmured  prayer,  and  then  move  noise- 
lessly on  as  though  they  feared  to  distract  his  attention 
or  to  disturb  his  meditations. 

I  now  ascend  the  river  and  reach  the  region  of  the 
mysterious  palaces.  On  my  return  the  old  man  is  still 
there,  still  holding  his  bony  foot  in  his  emaciated  hand. 
The  direction  of  his  gaze  has  never  changed,  and  the 
burning  rays  of  the  sun  cannot  dazzle  those  dimmed 
eyes  which  stare  into  heaven  with  an  expression  of 
beatitude. 

"  How  calm  he  is ! "  I  remark. 

My  boatman  looks  at  me,  and  smiled  as  one  smiles 
at  a  child  who  has  made  a  foolish  remark. 

"  That  man  !     Why,  he  is  dead  !  " 

Oh  !  he  is  dead  !  I  had  not  seen  the  leathern  thong 
which  passed  under  his  chin  and  held  his  head  to  a 
cushion. 

I  had  not  observed  the  crow  which  flew  so  near  his 
face,  nor  had  I  noticed  that  the  young  attendant, 
stationed  there  to  freshen  the  jasmine  garlands  and  the 
flame-coloured  robe,  often  waved  a  cloth  to  scare  the 
bird  away. 


262  TOWARDS  BENARES  ^ 

He  died  yesterday  afternoon,  and  after  having 
bathed  him  they  have  piously  placed  him  there  in 
that  praying  posture,  the  posture  which  had  always 
been  his  in  life,  so  that  he  may  view  the  full  glory  of 
the  morning.  The  head  was  tied  back  so  tightly  in 
order  that  he  might  better  see  the  sun  and  sky. 

He  will  not  be  burned,  for  they  never  burn  the 
yoghis,  their  holy  lives  having  freed  their  bodies  from 
all  grossness  !  This  evening  they  will  place  his  re- 
mains in  an  earthern  vase  and  then  consign  them  to 
the  Ganges.  So  these  were  congratulations  that  each 
smiling  passer-by  offered  to  the  happy  saint  whose 
virtues  and  ethereal  nature  proclaim  that  he  is  for  ever 
freed  from  reincarnation,  and  that  life  and  death  shall 
know  him  no  more. 

A  dog  comes  near  and  sniffs,  and  then  slinks  away 
with  drooping  tail.  Three  red  birds  come  to  look  too. 
A  monkey  clambers  down,  just  touches  the  hem  of  his 
garment,  and  then  rushes  up  the  stairway,  and  the 
young  guardian  suffers  them  all  to  come,  only  show- 
ing impatience  towards  the  crow,  whose  obstinate  re- 
turn tells  of  approaching  putrefaction.  Yet  the  crow 
keeps  coming  back,  almost  brushing  with  its  black 
wings  the  saintly  face  that  is  wrapped  in  the  ecstasy  of 
death. 


VIII 

AT  THE  BRAHMIN'S  HOUSE,  CLOSE  BY  THE  GOLDEN 

TEMPLE 

"  The  Supernatural  ?  It  is  quite  possible  that  we 
have  had  fakirs  who  have  been  able  to  perform  super- 
natural acts,  and  there  may  be  such  even  to-day.  But 
our  sages  do  not  favour  such  methods.  No  !  We 
reach  our  bourne  by  the  road  of  profound  meditation. 
It  is  the  only  certain  way." 

The  man  who  speaks  to  me  thus  is  an  old  man,  a 
Brahmin  he  is,  entitled  to  be  called  a  Pundit,  for  he  is 
learned  in  the  Sanskrit  tongue  and  the  Sanskrit  philo- 


TOWARDS  BENARES  263 

i 

sophies,  but  I  see  that  he  has  the  same  disdain  for  the 
miraculous  as  the  Masters  of  the  House  of  Silence. 

We  are  seated  on  the  terrace  of  the  house,  round 
which  Benares  stretches,  and  as  we  talk  the  growing 
twilight  settles  down  upon  us.  The  little  terrace,  which 
is  reached  by  a  stairway  leading  from  the  narrow  street, 
is  gloomy  and  secluded.  My  interpreter,  who  is  a 
pariah  by  birth,  may  not  set  foot  here,  so  he  remains 
on  the  topmost  step,  where  his  outlines  appear  in  the 
dusky  background.  His  voice,  when  he  translates, 
seems  to  come  f rorh  afar  in  the  still  evening  air.  Some- 
times in  the  eagerness  of  explanation  he  forgets  and 
places  his  foot  on  the  threshold,  whereupon  my  host, 
who  is  neither  a  Theosophist  nor  a  believer  in  equality, 
calls  his  attention  to  this  breach  of  the  decencies  es- 
tablished by  a  thousand  years  of  practice,  and  the 
pariah  draws  back  complacently. 

From  the  terrace  little  is  seen  but  mouldering  walls 
and  myriads  of  flying  crows,  save  only  the  one  marvel, 
which  rises  close  at  hand  from  the  surrounding  ruin 
and  decay,  a  jewelled  dome  glittering  in  the  rays  of 
the  evening  sun.  It  is  the  Golden  Temple  whose 
pinnacles  now  swarm  with  countless  parrots. 

I  often  come  to  visit  this  venerable  Pundit  whose 
house  is  rich  in  ancient  books  and  manuscripts,  and 
his  dwelling  stands  in  the  oldest  and  most  sacred 
quarter  of  Benares,  far  distant  from  the  new  districts 
which  have  been  rendered  commonplace  by  that  great 
leveller,  the  railway. 

The  quiet  surroundings  inspire  one's  mind  as  in  the 
olden  times.  Here  is  the  mystic  atmosphere  which 
tells  of  meditation,  and  which  ever  turns  the  mind  to 
thoughts  of  death  and  all  that  is  beyond.  The  Masters 
of  the  still-white  house  grant  that  these  are  sacred, 
prayer-steeped  places  :  Benares,  Mecca,  Lhasa,  and 
Jerusalem,  where,  notwithstanding  modern  doubt,  the 
carnal  bonds  are  loosened  and  one  is  nearer  heaven. 

Even  stately  ceremonials  and  rich  temples  influence, 
so  they  tell  us,  the  soul.  Everything  has  its  use. 
None  of  these  things  is  indifferent. 


264  TOWARDS  BENARES 

IX 
AT   HAPHAZARD    IN    BENARES 

As  I  leave  the  House  of  the  Masters,  where,  in  the 
silence  only  broken  by  the  cries  of  the  birds,  such 
strange  and  new  doctrines  of  eternity  have  been  im- 
parted to  me,  I  am  filled  with  whirling  thoughts  about 
the  infinite,  and  cannot  call  back  my  mind  to  earthly 
scenes. 

Yet  the  Oriental  fairyland  is  ever  waiting  at  the 
door  of  the  humble  dwelling,  though  it  somehow  seems 
to  have  lost  all  charm  for  me.  It  may  be  that  an  air  of 
mystery  and  meditation  floats  through  this  atmosphere 
of  Benares  and  strangely  alters  and  dims  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  East. 

The  labyrinths  of  little  Indian  streets  and  the  sculp- 
tured or  painted  houses  resemble  those  of  other  cities, 
and  everywhere  women,  lovely  as  those  of  Tanagra, 
pass  lightly  veiled  along  the  shady  narrow  streets. 
Sometimes  a  sunbeam  falls  on  their  metal  rings  and 
bracelets,  or  on  their  many-hued  robes,  patterned  in 
silver  on  a  green  or  golden  ground,  making  them  shine 
luminously.  Then  the  women  resemble  the  houris  of 
a  dream,  and  should  you  meet  their  glance  it  is  as  if 
that  look  contained  all  that  may  be  of  earthly  bliss. 

But  the  fakirs  crouched  in  delirium  at  the  street 
corners  call  back  the  thoughts  of  prayer  and  death, 
and  there  are  innumerable  shapeless  sacred  stones 
whose  age  and  use  have  been  forgotten,  but  which  may 
not  be  touched  by  hands  profane,  but  only  by  those  of 
some  caste  who  may  touch  them  or  wreathe  them  with 
flowers.  In  the  thicknesses  of  the  walls  dismal  re- 
cesses are  hollowed  out  where,  behind  iron  gratings,  the 
imaged  gods  are  seated,  and  on  every  side  the  stone 
pyramids  of  the  temples  rise  into  the  air.  Herds  of 
gentle  sacred  cattle  wander  from  morn  till  night, 
generally  choosing  the  market-places,  and  where  the 
crowd  stand  thickest.  Monkeys,  pigeons,  crows,  and 
all  the  birds  of  the  sky  sport  amidst  the  people  entering 
their  houses  and  eating  with  them,  and  this  alone 


TOWARDS  BENARES  265 

proclaims  that  this  is  a  foreign  land  very  far  removed 
from  ours. 

We  meet  many  bridal  processions  with  their  accom- 
paniment of  plaintive  music  and  bell-hung  dancers  ; 
the  faces  of  the  bridal  pair  are  hidden  by  veils  of  jas- 
mine flowers,  which  rain  down  from  their  hair  powdered 
with  gold.  Sometimes  it  is  a  marriage  of  the  babes, 
the  husband  looking  not  older  than  five  years,  and  the 
wife,  two  or  three  perhaps.  Both  are  seated  in  the 
same  litter,  and  their  staid  gravity  is  delightfully  droll. 
Where  the  husband  is  older,  fifteen  or  sixteen,  he 
rides  a  horse,  but  his  face  is  always  hidden  behind 
trailing  flowers. 

In  worldly  affairs  this  Brahmin  people  have  retained 
their  graceful  and  almost  childlike  simplicity,  but  in 
abstract  conception  and  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  soul, 
the  meanest  Brahmin,  garbed  in  nothing  but  a  loin- 
cloth, stands  far  above  our  pretentious  wiseacres,  who, 
passing  him,  merely  deign  to  puff  the  smoke  of  their 
cigars  into  his  face. 

As  the  Masters  of  the  Sacred  House  declare,  the  very 
atmosphere  of  Benares  seems  to  contain  some  essence 
that  lifts  us  out  of  ourselves  and  even  those  who  have 
only  stayed  here  a  little  while  seem  transformed.  And 
yet  in  all  the  world  there  is  no  pageant  so  glorious,  and 
matchless  forms  ever  appeal  to  our  bewildered  senses, 
and  in  no  other  place  does  the  flesh  so  loudly  summon 
one  from  his  celestial  dreams. 

The  fearsome  goddess  Kali,  too,  has  her  temple  in 
the  sacred  city,  a  dark  red  temple,  red  as  the  colour  of 
the  blood  for  which  she  is  athirst,  a  temple  with  stones 
dabbled  with  blood  and  reeking  of  some  recent  sacri- 
fice. A  noxious  smell  of  monkeys  mingles  with  the 
odours  from  the  carnage,  and  blinking  eyes  look  at 
you  from  every  corner.  The  monkeys  spring  upon 
your  shoulders  as  you  enter  and  thrust  their  cold, 
nimble  fingers  into  your  pockets,  or  gently  pull  your 
hair.  A  single  family  came  from  the  forests  long  ago 
to  make  their  home  with  Kali,  but  no  one  dared  to 
drive  them  forth,  so  now  the  temple  and  the  gardens 


266  TOWARDS  BENARES 

are  full  of  them,  and  the  old  intruders  have  become 
the  masters,  fed  with  grain  and  treated  with  religious 
respect  by  all. 

The  Golden  Temple  stands  in  the  very  heart  of 
Benares,  carefully  hidden  amid  a  maze  of  narrow 
streets.  It  is  very  small  and  so  surrounded  that  it  is 
difficult  to  get  a  view  of  it.  Only  the  dreamers  of  the 
neighbouring  terraces  and  the  flying  swarms  of  birds 
can  see  its  fabulous  domes  which  are  wrought  in  pure 
gold.  As  we  approach,  the  labyrinthine  streets  grow 
closer  and  more  tortuous,  and  idols  are  scattered  every- 
where. I  see  ruins  and  filth  of  all  sorts,  gold  in  little 
dens,  rotting  garlands  of  flowers,  carved  Lingams  of 
agate  mounted  on  pedestals  and  sacred  stones  that  one 
dares  not  touch. 

The  idol -sellers  offer  their  gods  of  bronze  and  marble, 
sanctified  by  being  made  here,  and  fakirs,  with  strange 
wild  eyes  and  ghostly  features  dabbled  over  with  secret 
signs,  crouch  at  the  street  corners.  As  you  pass  they 
look  up  from  their  fires  of  crackling  wood,  and  with 
hesitating  gesture  give  you  their  blessing. 

An  inclosed  space,  overhung  with  ruined  walls, 
serves  as  a  court  to  the  Golden  Temple,  although  it 
does  not  join  on  to  it,  and  one  must  plunge  into  a 
dark,  narrow  lane  to  find  an  entrance. 

This  sacred  courtyard  is  always  filled  with  fakirs, 
and  it  is  sacrilege  for  a  stranger  to  touch  anything 
here.  Niches  closed  with  gates  of  fretted  bronze  are 
hollowed  out  around  the  walls  and  in  them  are  rows  of 
precious  polished  agates,  sacred  stones  by  which  the 
mysteries  of  life  and  death  are  prefigured. 

Cages,  as  for  wild  beasts,  are  filled  with  fierce  divini- 
ties, and  in  the  corners,  decked  with  flowers  and 
fineries,  are  horrible  Ganesas,  worn  and  besmirched 
by  all  the  fingerings  of  the  faithful .  Necklaces  of  faded 
flowers  strew  the  ground,  mingled  with  the  dust  of 
centuries  and  the  dung  of  the  sacred  cattle,  who,  having 
wandered  through  the  crowds  all  day,  make  this  their 
sleeping-place  at  night.  Here,  too,  the  pilgrims  coming 
to  the  temple  congregate,  pious  hermits  from  the 


TOWARDS  BENARES  267 

surrounding  wastes,  radiant-faced  yoghis  in  flame- 
coloured  robes,  and  men  crowned  with  shells  and 
beads,  all  clustering  together  under  an  old  granite 
kiosk.  Round  them  are  seated  the  usual  crowd  of 
begging  or  epileptic  fakirs,  those  loathsome  skeletons 
in  which  alone  the  eyes  seem  to  live,  and  lepers  who 
stretch  out  fingerless  hands  for  alms.  A  vague  feeling 
of  horror  which  I  am  unable  to  repress  comes  over  me 
when  I  see  these  rigid  forms,  these  faces  plastered  with 
cinders  or  with  yellow  powder,  and  I  can  never  forget 
the  look  of  one  old  fakir,  whose  straggling  hairs  were 
knotted  high  above  his  head. 

No  unbeliever  may  ever  cross  the  threshold  of  the 
Golden  Temple,  but  there  is  an  ancient  house  of  prayer 
just  opposite  the  doors  across  a  narrow  lane,  from 
which  the  mad  richness  of  the  Golden  House  is  visible, 
and  at  sunset  and  sunrise  players  of  horns  and  tom- 
toms sit  on  the  balcony  here  and  serenade  the  god  of 
death.  There  are  three  domes,  one  of  which  is  of  black 
marble,  covered  with  images  of  the  gods,  but  the  two 
others  are  hammered  and  sculptured  from  sheets  of 
purest  gold.  No  gilding  or  other  artifice  could  convey 
such  an  impression  as  these  thickly  wrought  sheets 
which  time  cannot  tarnish. 

Whole  flocks  of  green  parrots  have  built  their  nests 
undisturbed  amongst  the  golden  leaves  and  flowers, 
and,  as  they  flutter  by,  their  colours  seem  to  catch  an 
unnatural  lustre  from  the  priceless  background. 

Nearly  all  the  streets  lead  to  the  Ganges,  where  they 
grow  wider  and  become  less  gloomy.  Here,  suddenly, 
the  magnificent  palaces  and  all  the  brightness  of  the 
day  dawn  upon  us. 

These  massive  tiers  of  steps,  which  stretch  along 
the  banks  and  reach  to  the  water's  edge  even  in  these 
times  of  drought,  where  fallen  temples  emerge  from 
their  slimy  bed,  were  made  in  honour  of  the  Ganges, 
and  on  each  landing  there  are  little  granite  altars, 
shaped  like  niches,  in  which  diminutive  gods  are 
placed.  These  images  are  like  those  of  the  temples, 
but  they  are  of  more  massive  construction,  so  as  to 


268  TOWARDS  BENARES 

withstand  the  swirl  of  the  waters  which  cover  them 
during  the  annual  rains. 

All  the  life  of  Benares  centres  round  the  river. 
People  come  from  palaces  and  jungles  to  die  on  its 
sacred  banks,  and  the  old  and  the  sick  are  brought  here 
by  their  families  to  await  the  end.  The  relatives  never 
return  to  their  homes  in  the  country  after  the  death  has 
taken  place,  and  so  Benares,  which  already  contains 
three  hundred  thousand  inhabitants,  increases  rapidly 
in  size.  For  those  who  feel  their  end  approaching  this 
is  the  spot  so  eagerly  desired. 

Oh  !  to  die  at  Benares.  To  die  on  the  banks  of  the 
Ganges  !  To  have  one's  body  bathed  for  the  last  time, 
and  then  to  have  one's  ashes  strewn  into  the  river  ! 


HESITATION 

"  Manas,  soul :  in  Sanskrit,  a  radiant  matter  diffused 
around  us,  to  which  it  is  impossible  to  assign  those 
definite  limits  which  pertain  to  a  separate  and  distinct 
individuality,  irreductibly  and  for  ever  distinct." 

The  sound  of  these  words  penetrates  through  the 
calm  air  of  the  little  house,  where  I  am  seated  on  the 
linen-covered  bench  in  front  of  my  instructress.  Her 
task  is  to  banish  from  my  mind  all  thoughts  of  a  dis- 
tinct existence,  and  to  this  she  returns  unrelenting, 
though  with  kindness,  again  and  again.  Those  whom 
I  have  loved,  my  friends,  my  relatives,  myself,  all  atoms 
separated  but  for  one  instant  from  the  great  whole, 
atoms  which  when  years  have  run  their  course  will  melt 
into  an  Eternal  and  Ineffable  Unity.  What  a  clear, 
sad  interpretation  of  the  sweet,  vague  Gospel  words  : 
"  One  day  we  shall  be  returned  to  the  bosom  of  God." 

So  it  is  a  delusion  that  the  individuality  of  those  we 
have  loved  persists.  Their  smiles,  the  expression  of 
their  faces,  and  all  the  things  which  distinguish  them 
from  others,  and  which  seem  the  ethereal  reflection  of 
their  souls,  all  that  we  would  wish  to  be  imperishable 
and  unchangeable,  is  but  of  the  passing  moment. 


TOWARDS  BENARES  269 

For  a  long  time  I  clung,  almost  with  despair,  to  our 
Christian  faith,  and  refused  to  consider  even  a  doctrine 
which  seemed  so  pitiless.  Lately,  at  Madras,  I  once 
more  rejected  it  in  its  hard  old  Buddhist  form,  but 
now,  the  pure  faiths  which  have  been  taught  almost 
from  the  beginning  of  time  grow  on  me  day  by  day, 
and  after  passing  through  realms  of  terror,  which  I 
neither  can  nor  will  describe,  I  feel  that  here  at  last 
I  can  find  peace  and  consolation. 

As  the  masters  had  foretold,  a  growing  sense  of  dis- 
tance seems  to  separate  me  from  this  world  and  the 
memories  of  my  lost  ones.  I  no  longer  invoke  with 
agony  those  who  have  left  me.  Doubtless  they  still 
exist,  freed  from  the  earthly  trammels  of  their  per- 
sonality. Yet  I  accept  the  idea  of  that  far-distant 
meeting,  that  melting  into  them  which  will  not  be  to- 
morrow, but  after  centuries — the  length  of  which  our 
ephemeral  nature  cannot  conceive. 

I  know  that  this  mood  is  but  a  passing  one,  and  that 
when  I  have  left  this  place  the  world  will  claim  me  once 
more,  but  never  again  in  the  old  way,  for  the  seed  sown 
in  my  soul  will  grow,  and  Benares  will  call  me  back. 

How  empty,  pitiable,  and  vain  my  past  in  life  has 
been  ;  I,  who  doted  on  the  world's  array  of  changing 
forms  and  colours,  and  but  sought  to  pass  the  things 
that  pass  away. 

It  grows  dusk  as  I  leave  the  Masters'  House,  and  all 
the  charm  of  the  East  awaits  me  with  its  lures.  In  aim- 
less wanderings  I  happen  to  light  upon  the  quarter  of 
the  bayaderes  and  courtesans.  Lights  kindle  in  all  the 
upper  floors  of  the  houses,  where  by  day  muslin-sellers 
display  their  rich  gold-spangled  wares.  A  whole 
street  is  occupied  by  these  creatures  of  night  and  shade, 
now  appearing  at  the  windows  or  on  the  balconies, 
adorned  for  the  evening.  Their  rooms,  decorated  with 
mirrors  and  many  childish  baubles,  are  brilliantly 
lighted  up,  and  on  the  whitewashed  walls  images  of 
Ganesa,  Hanouman,  and  the  bloody  Kali  may  be  seen. 
Rings  and  gems  shine  from  their  ears  and  naked  arms, 
and  necklaces  of  heavy-scented  flowers  fall  in  rows 


270  TOWARDS  BENARES 

upon  their  breasts.  They  have  the  same  velvety  eyes 
as  those  daughters  of  Brahma  who  unveil  themselves 
each  morning  by  the  Ganges,  and  it  may  be  the  same 
flesh  of  bronze  and  amber. 


XI 
A   BENCH    ON   WHICH    BUDDHA    SAT 

To-day  my  friend  the  Pundit  takes  me  into  the 
country  to  see  a  bench  on  which  Buddha  used  to  sit, 
and  on  our  way  there  we  converse  about  the  hidden 
things. 

Barley  and  corn  grow  in  the  peaceful  and  lonely 
country  round  Benares,  and  were  it  not  that  ripe 
harvests  and  green  trees  are  to  be  seen  here  in  Feb- 
ruary, I  might  fancy  that  this  was  France.  Shepherds 
watching  their  zebus,  bulls,  and  goats,  play  on  pipe  and 
reed.  By  the  woodside  there  are  the  sacred  stones  on 
which  pious  peasants  have  placed  yellow  wreaths, 
stones  which  long  ago  may  have  represented  Ganesa  or 
Vishnu,  for  some  resemblance  is  still  visible.  Birds  of 
gorgeous  colours,  some  turquoise  blue,  some  emerald 
green  with  scarlet  crests,  hop  near  us,f  earless  of  the  men 
who  never  slay.  A  tranquil  calm  seems  to  hover  over 
all  this  land.  Heaps  of  ruins  and  tombs  almost  buried 
under  trees  and  roots  of  trees  lie  scattered  around,  and 
over  them  lowly  villages  have  been  built,  whose  roofs 
are  those  of  the  old  cemeteries  or  temples.  Monasteries 
built  when  Buddhism  was  at  its  height,  which  were 
transformed  into  mosques  when  Islam  swept  the  land 
and  then  abandoned  when  the  Brahmin  faith  resumed 
its  sway,  and  tombs  of  fakirs,  warriors,  or  dervishes,  all 
lie  in  confused  masses  under  the  bluish  shade  of  banyan 
or  of  mango  trees.  Some  large  stones  bear  on  their 
several  sides  the  signs  of  diverse  faiths ;  here  Buddha's 
lotus,  there  some  verses  from  the  Koran. 

The  occupants  of  the  little  huts  built  upon  the  ruins 
follow  the  ancient  trade,  weaving  sashes,  whose  silken 
threads  are  stretched  over  old  graveyards,  or  dyeing 
muslins,  which  they  spread  out  to  dry  over  the  door- 


TOWARDS  BENARES  271 

ways  of  the  ancient  temples  in  sunny  places  where  the 
lizards  sport. 

The  spot  which  forms  the  object  of  our  pilgrimage 
is  still  far  distant.  On  our  way  we  pass  a  cart  drawn 
by  zebus.  It  is  filled  with  children,  and  is  led  by  an 
old  wizard  of  a  man,  who  reminds  me  of  the  bogey  of 
the  fairy-tale. 

There  are  at  least  twenty  boys  and  girls,  some  five 
or  six  years  old.  Their  heads  are  to  be  seen  every- 
where ;  some  peep  through  the  open  sides,  and  others 
stick  out  under  the  awning  which  they  have  raised. 
All  these  children  are  decked  with  jewels,  necklaces, 
and  nose-rings,  and  wear  their  best  clothes  and  tall, 
spangle-covered  caps.  Their  eyelids  have  been  rimmed 
with  black,  not,  I  am  told,  out  of  vanity,  but  to  avert  the 
glance  which  some  evil  witch  might  cast  on  them.  The 
good-natured  old  bogey  who  leads  the  team  has  a  long 
white  beard  like  a  river  god,  and  his  naked  breast  is 
covered  with  gray  hairs  like  the  fur  of  a  polar  bear. 
Where  is  he  taking  these  babies  to  ?  Doubtless  to 
some  childish  festival,  for  they  look  so  happy  and  gay 
in  their  holiday  finery. 

Now  that  we  are  in  the  heart  of  the  country  our 
carriage  is  useless,  so  we  must  cross  the  sunny  plains 
afoot.  At  last  we  reach  the  goal  of  our  journey,  and 
see  that  it  stands  in  the  centre  of  a  stony  dell,  over- 
hung with  grayish  rocks  that  look  like  ruins.  Here 
goats  nibble  the  short  grass,  while  shepherds  make 
music  with  their  pipes. 

An  old  bench  of  blackened  stone  stands  under  a 
shady  tree,  which  might  be  mistaken  for  our  oaks,  and 
the  Pundit  and  I  seat  ourselves  reverently,  for  this  is 
the  place  where  Buddha  sat  more  than  two  thousand 
years  ago,  the  place  where  he  preached  his  first  sermon. 
The  Buddhist  faith,  which  is  still  the  creed  of  the  far 
East,  has  long  departed  from  these  lands,  and  Indians 
no  longer  come  to  this  once  hallowed  spot.  In  spite  of 
its  forlorn  appearance,  this  old  bench  is  still  the  spot 
round  which  millions  of  human  thoughts  revolve,  and 
the  unfathomable  intellects  of  countless  yellow  men, 


272  TOWARDS  BENARES 

living  either  in  the  heart  of  China,  the  islands  of  Japan, 
or  the  dark  forests  of  Siam,  dream  of  the  holy  place, 
and  sometimes  pilgrims  cross  the  many  intervening 
miles  merely  to  kneel  and  kiss  this  ancient  bench. 
Here  in  the  exquisite  silence  of  this  pastoral  spot  the 
Pundit  and  I  talk  of  the  tenets  of  the  Brahmin  faith. 

Close  by  the  seat  from  which  Buddha  preached  his 
doctrine  of  cold  wisdom  a  huge  rounded  granite  tower 
rises.  It,  in  its  day,  was  much  covered  with  sculptur- 
ings,  but  the  two  thousand  years  which  have  passed 
over  its  head  have  worn  away  the  carvings,  and  filled 
the  chinks  with  grass  and  weeds.  These  are  the 
remains  of  the  first  Buddhist  temple.  This  is  the 
place  where  Benares  once  stood.  At  about  a  man's 
height  from  the  ground  the  rough  stones  and  pro-, 
jections  are  gilded,  and  this  gives  a  strange  and  un- 
expected appearance  to  so  old  a  monument.  It  ap- 
pears that  whenever  Chinese,  Annamites,  or  Burmese 
pilgrims  realize  their  dream,  and  at  last  journey  to  the 
seat  and  tower,  they  bring  these  gold  leaves  with  them 
from  their  far-off  lands  and  nail  them  up  as  tokens  of 
respect — one  might  almost  say  in  guise  of  visiting 
cards — to  the  forsaken  sanctuary. 

As  we  return  to  Benares,  at  the  close  of  the  day,  my 
companion  stops  our  carriage  at  the  country  house  of 
one  of  his  friends,  a  noble  Brahmin,  learned  like  him- 
self in  philosophy  and  Sanskrit.  They  offer  me  fruits 
and  fresh  water,  but,  I  need  not  say,  do  not  eat  of 
the  food  rendered  impure  by  my  presence.  The  old 
dwelling  is  exquisite.  The  garden,  too,  has  straight 
walks,  edged  with  a  plant  which  resembles  box,  and 
water-basins  with  fountains  in  the  old  French  style. 
Our  marguerites,  nasturtiums,  and  roses  grow  here  too, 
and,  although  the  winter  has  robbed  some  trees  of 
their  foliage,  the  flowers,  the  warm  air,  and  the  yellowy 
leaves  give  the  impression  of  a  lingering  summer,  or 
maybe  of  a  dying  autumn,  an  autumn  whose  end  has 
been  hastened  on  by  too  much  sun  and  drought  too 
long. 


q 
O 


TOWARDS  BENARES  273 

XII 

WHAT   THE    MASTERS    AT   BENARES    THINK    OF 
CHRISTIANITY 

"  If  you  are  a  Christian,"  say  the  sages  of  Benares, 
"  cling  fast  to  the  faith  you  have,  and  do  not  seek 
further.  Christianity  is  a  beautiful  symbol,  marvel- 
lously adapted  to  the  Western  mode  of  thought,  and 
the  germs  of  truth  are  hidden  in  it.  You  have  in  Christ 
a  divine  and  ever-living  master,  for  there  is  no  death : 
only  the  life  here  and  the  life  eternal,  and  the  expecta- 
tion of  those  who  die  in  Him  will  not  be  unfulfilled. 

"  But  if  your  reason  cannot  accept  the  teachings  of 
Christ  and  '  the  letter  which  kills,'  then,  and  then 
only,  come  to  us.  If  the  path  of  prayer  and  devotion 
is  closed  to  you,  we  will  show  you  the  more  difficult 
way  of  abstract  knowledge.  Yet,  after  countless  ages, 
both  roads  meet,  and  end  at  the  same  bourne." 

"  Prayer,"  they  say  on  another  occasion,  "  cannot 
perhaps  influence  the  daily  events  of  our  lives,  but  for 
the  development  and  consolation  of  our  souls  it  is 
supreme." 

"  We  cannot  think  that  the  great  God,  '  the  One 
whose  Name  may  not  be  spoken,'  listens  to  the  prayers 
of  men." 

"  But  the  astral  sphere  is  peopled  by  beneficent 
beings,  individualized  particles  of  Him,  who  watch  us 
from  afar.  Christians  !  call  on  Jesus,  and  never  doubt 
He  and  those  who  live  in  Him  are  there,  and  that  you 
will  be  heard." 

XIII 
ANOTHER    MORNING 

The  morning  air  of  Benares  is  fresh  and  dewy. 
They  call  it  winter  here,  but  it  is  a  winter  which 
resembles  one  of  our  fine  October  days. 

At  daybreak  I  make  my  way  to  the  river  from  the 
far-off  suburb  where  I  live,  and  on  the  road  I  pass 
country  market-folk  hastening  to  the  town,  wrapped  to 

18 


274  TOWARDS  BENARES 

the  eyes  in  muslins  and  cashmeres  as  though  the  cold 
were  great.  They  carry  jars  of  cream  and  baskets  of 
rice  cakes  suspended  from  sticks  which  are  slung  over 
their  shoulders  ;  flowers  too,  whole  hampers  of  flowers, 
always  the  same  jasmine  garlands  and  yellow  mari- 
golds, offerings  to  old  Ganges,  whither  the  people 
flock  each  morning. 

I  reach  the  top  of  the  steps,  but  before  descending 
pause  by  an  old  kiosk  where  a  fakir  has  lived  for 
more  than  thirty  years,  tending  a  little  fire  lit  on  the 
ground  by  his  fakir  predecessors  more  than  a  thousand 
years  ago.  He  is  old  and  fleshless,  and  his  long  hair 
is  knotted  into  a  roll  upon  his  head,  and  his  naked 
body  is  covered  with  ashes.  After  throwing  a  jasmine 
collar  round  my  neck  he  glances  at  me  for  an  instant 
with  eyes  that  have  a  far-off  look.  Then,  with  a  ges- 
ture which  gently  bids  me  sit  and  meditate,  he  smiles 
and  sinks  gently  back  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

Before  us,  framed  in  by  the  ancient  columns  of  the 
little  shelter,  lies  the  Ganges,  the  opposite  shore  and 
the  still  flat  plains  yet  wrapped  in  the  mists  of  night, 
out  of  which  the  great  enchanter,  the  sun,  slowly  rises. 

From  a  neighbouring  kiosk,  which  also  overhangs 
the  river,  the  morning  serenade  to  the  Ganges  and  all 
the  gods  of  Benares  commences.  I  can  see  the  long 
horns  pointing  towards  the  east  through  the  sculptured 
pillars,  and  can  distinguish  their  howls,  which  are 
those  of  a  monster  at  bay,  and  the  sullen  and  hollow 
roar  of  the  tom-toms  that  are  being  beaten  inside. 

Following  the  general  custoih,  I  go  each  morning 
to  the  river  where  my  boat  awaits  me.  First  we  pass 
the  place  of  the  funeral  py»es,  and  as  it  is  several 
days  since  the  plague  brok^  out,  there  is  only  one 
corpse  there.  It  is  lying  on  the  shore,  plunged  half 
into  the  water,  taking  its  last  bath.  Many  must  have 
been  cremated  in  the  night,  however,  for  smoking 
embers  fill  the  burning  ghat,  and  under  the  flowers 
the  water  is  all  blackened  by  the  human  embers  that 
float  past  mingled  with  filth  and  rubbish.  The  young 
fakir  who  watches  the  dead  stands  motionless,  with 


TOWARDS  BENARES  275 

crossed  arms  and  sunken  head  powdered  with  dust ; 
he  resembles  some  Grecian  bronze  newly  unearthed, 
save  that  his  long  hair  is  dyed,  and  that  he  wears  a 
jasmine  crown.  Carcasses  of  drowned  cattle  and  dead 
dogs  float  amongst  the  flowers,  and  the  Ganges  diffuses 
a  faint  sickly  smell  into  the  limpid  air,  speaking  of 
death  even  in  the  rosy  hues  of  the  enchanted  morning. 

I  feel  that  spring  is  near  and  even  the  traces  of 
winter  which  I  had  noticed  at  first  seem  to  have 
vanished.  I  feel  a  languor  in  the  morning  air,  and  it 
may  be  that  the  river  has  felt  it  too,  for  the  long- 
haired bathers,  whose  breasts  are  hidden  in  fine  muslins, 
seem  to  tarry  longer.  The  winged  bathers  come  in 
crowds,  and  sparrows,  pigeons,  and  birds  of  all  colours 
swarm  among  the  praying  Brahmins,  alighting  on  their 
shining  drinking- vessels  or  amongst  the  flowers.  Some 
cling  to  the  boat  ropes  and  sing  at  the  top  of  their 
voices.  The  sacred  cattle  are  more  indolent,  and  lie 
sunning  themselves  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  where 
children  come  and  caress  them,  bringing  bunches  of 
fresh-cut  grass  and  handfuls  of  green  and  juicy  reeds. 

All  the  worshippers  of  Benares  are  assembled  on  the 
banks,  and  as  ever  nude,  bronze  forms  of  Indians, 
nobly  born,  throng  the  huge  steps  lining  the  shore  or 
seek  the  shelter  of  the  strange  expanded  umbrellas  ; 
and  even  the  niches  of  granite,  in  which  six-armed  gods 
dwell,  and  the  rafts  that  lie  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sun, 
teem  with  men. 

I  am  the  only  man  by  the  riverside  who  does  not 
pray.  All  the  others  at  least  perform  the  sacred  rites, 
ablutions,  obeisances,  and  offerings  of  white  and 
yellow  flowers. 

The  morning  prayer  ascends  from  all  the  rafts  and 
landing-places  ;  but  I  have  no  place  among  the  faith- 
ful, who  look  scornfully  at  me  or  feign  to  ignore  my 
presence,  taking  me  to  be  one  of  the  tourists  who,  now 
that  the  journey  has  been  made  so  easy,  flock  here  in 
great  numbers. 

But  I  am  no  longer  the  same  as  I  used  to  be,  and 
the  hours  spent  in  the  House  of  the  Masters  have  left 


276  TOWARDS   BENARES 

an  impression  on  me  which  I  think  will  never  fade.  I 
have  crossed  the  terrors  of  the  threshold  and  can  see 
what  place  awaits  me.  Everything  around  me  has 
changed  :  life  and  even  death  in  the  new  and  different 
light  which  the  Masters  have  thrown  on  the  Life 
Eternal. 

And  yet  "  the  illusions  of  this  world,"  as  the  sages 
call  them,  have  a  hold  upon  me  still.  Those  feelings 
of  supreme  detachment  and  renunciation  of  all  that  is 
earthly  and  transitory,  which  they  have  instilled  into 
me,  grow  in  my  soul  ;  but  I  know  no  place  where  the 
spiritual  and  the  fleshly  so  mingle  as  at  Benares. 
Here  people  think  of  prayer  and  death,  yet  the  lights, 
the  colours,  the  young  women,  whose  damp  veils  but 
half  conceal  their  charms,  and  the  incomparable  dis- 
plays of  Indian  beauty,  lurk  on  every  side  to  trap  the 
senses. 

My  boatmen,  needing  no  instructions,  row  up  the 
river  to  the  lonely  quarter  of  the  old  palaces.  I  am  to 
return  this  afternoon  to  the  Masters'  House,  not  indeed 
without  dread,  though  their  teachings,  which  at  first 
shocked  me,  gain  hourly  upon  my  attention.  I  am  no 
more  what  I  used  to  be,  and  it  seems  as  if  they  had 
taken  possession  of  my  inmost  soul,  that  they  might 
fuse  it  into  that  soul  which  is  the  Essence  of  the 
Universe. 

"  You  can  only  desire,"  the  sages  say,  "  that  which 
is  different  from  yourself,  that  which  you  have  not  ; 
and  did  you  but  know  that  the  things  you  seek  are 
within  you,  for  the  Essence  of  all  things  is  within  you, 
then  desire  would  melt  away." 

"  You  are  a  part  of  a  Godlike  spirit,  from  which  all 
truth  and  beauty  radiates,  and  could  you  but  engrave 
this  truth  upon  your  heart,  those  narrow  and  mistaken 
views  from  which  suffering  and  sadness  and  the  desire 
to  be  a  separate  entity  arise  would  of  themselves  fall 
from  you." 

We  pass  by  old  mysterious  palaces,  but  there  are  no 
women  by  the  river's  edge,  wringing  the  water  from 
their  dripping  hair,  nor  is  there  any  one  on  the  stairs, 


TOWARDS   BENARES  277 

or  at  the  foot  of  the  high  and  dismal  walls.  Suddenly, 
however,  the  heavily  barred  door  in  the  basement  of 
one  of  the  princely  dwellings — a  door  which  must  be 
submerged  in  the  rainy  season — is  thrown  open  and  a 
young  woman  appears  in  the  bright  sunshine,  in  radi- 
ant contrast  to  the  sombre  granite  background.  She 
is  covered  after  the  fashion  of  the  Roman  woman, 
with  two  veils  which  fall  from  her  head — one  of  violet 
edged  with  silver,  the  other  of  an  orange  hue.  She 
looks  across  at  the  barren  plain  on  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  river,  and  her  bare  arm  is  raised  so  that  she  may 
shade  her  large  eyes,  those  Indian  eyes,  whose  charm  is 
undescribable.  The  violet  and  yellow  muslins  serve  to 
accentuate  the  matchless  lines  and  harmonious  curves 
of  her  young  body. 

She  is  I  and  I  am  She,  and  we  are  part  of  one  God- 
like Whole,  the  sages  tell  me,  and  it  feels  as  if  already 
I  felt  their  serenity  growing  upon  me. 

I  look  for  a  while  at  the  woman  standing  there  with- 
out regret  or  troubled  feelings,  resting  my  eyes  upon 
her  as  on  a  young  sister  of  whose  beauty  I  am  proud. 
A  feeling  of  brotherhood  links  us  together,  and  the 
splendour  of  the  morning  seems  to  unite  us.  We  are 
the  sun,  the  ever-changing  fantasy  of  nature,  the 
Universal  Soul. 

Can  it  be  that  the  delusion  from  which  the  desire  to 
be  a  separate  entity  springs  has  already  fallen  from 
me? 


XIV 
TO   MY   UNKNOWN   BROTHERS 

I  have  taken  the  simple  oath  required  of  me,  and 
the  Masters  of  the  little  House  of  Silence  have  made 
me  one  of  their  disciples. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  repeat  what  they  have  com- 
menced to  teach  me,  for  I  am  not  sure  that  any  one 
would  care  to  follow  me  so  far  out  of  my  usual  course. 

I  know  well  that  it  is  only  expected  of  me  that  I 


278  TOWARDS  BENARES 

should  speak  of  the  trifling  events  of  my  journey,  and 
catch  the  glint  of  passing  things. 

And  how,  too,  after  but  a  few  days  of  initiation,  could 
I  think  myself  capable  of  teaching  ?  The  little  that  I 
could  tell  might  unbalance  or  even  lead  to  the  terrors 
of  the  threshold,  but  no  further. 

And  I  do  not  claim  to  have  discovered  the  Vedas 
any  more  than  I  claim  to  have  discovered  India.  Im- 
perfect translations  of  these  wonderful  works  have  long 
been  amongst  us. 

I  only  wish  to  tell  my  unknown  brothers,  and  in  this 
present  age  I  have  many,  that  more  consolation  resides 
in  the  Vedic  doctrines  than  they  might  at  first  suppose, 
and  the  consolation  offered  there  cannot  be  destroyed 
by  reasoning  like  that  of  the  revealed  religions. 

This  collection  of  the  Vedas  is  not  the  work  of  one 
man,  but  of  a  whole  race  ;  and  one  finds  contradic- 
tions, obscurities,  and  even  childish  inanities  by  the 
side  of  passages  that  are  supremely  marvellous.  The 
Masters  at  Benares,  who  study  these  writings,  inex- 
tricable as  a  jungle  and  bottomless  as  the  sea,  are,  I 
think,  the  only  men  who  can  explain  their  meaning. 
None  else  had  disclosed  such  abysmal  depths,  and  I 
have  never  heard  such  words  on  life  and  death.  They 
alone  can  give  answers  which  will  satisfy  the  burning 
questionings  of  the  human  mind,  and  such  evidence  is 
brought  before  you  that  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  the 
continuance  of  life  beyond  the  terrestrial  sphere. 

But  the  lonely  little  whitewashed  house,  standing  in 
its  rose  garden,  must  not  be  approached  too  lightly, 
for  here  renunciation  and  death  have  their  abode. 
Peace  reigns  within,  but  should  it  touch  you  for  a 
single  moment,  you  can  never  be  your  old  self  again, 
and  it  is  a  fearful  ordeal  to  see,  even  dimly  and  from 
afar,  Brahm  the  Absolute — He  Who  dwells  afar,  Who 
sits  apart  from  earthly  strife ;  Brahm,  the  ineffable — 
He  of  Whom  we  cannot  even  think,  and  of  Whom  no 
words  may  ever  be  spoken,  and  Whose  nature  may 
only  be  expressed  by  Silence. 


INDEX 


Afghan  Mussulmans,  244-245 
Agra: 

Birds  at,  238 

CharacteriHtics  of,  233 

Fortress,  ancient,  237 

Palaces  of,  234-237 
Amber,  202,  204-205 
Anuradhapura  : 

Dimensions  of,  18 

Meaning  of  name,  7  note 

Rock  temple  of,  15-17 

Ruins  of,  8,  11-12 

Site  of,  7-8 

Village  in,  12 
Arabian  Sea,  80-81 
Architecture,   119,  219 
Aunis,  recollections  of,  19,  27 

Babar,  Emp.,  220  note 
Balamoni,  115-118 
Banyan  trees,  30,  32,  35 
Bas-reliefs  on  stone,  15-16 
Bathing,    ceremonial,    44,    259, 

275 

Bats,  67,  119,  127,  129,  231 
Bayaddre— at  Madura,  115-118; 

at    Pondicherry    (dancing), 

135-140 

Beckanire,  208 
Bed,  suspended,  80 
Beggars,    127;     starving,    1 74 ; 

diseased,  242,  267 
Benares  : 

District  of,  270 

Funeral    pyres    at,    247-250, 

252-254 

Street  sights  of,  264-267,  274 
Temples     at,     246 ;      Golden 

Temple,     263,     266,     267; 

temple   of    Kali,    266 ;     re- 
mains    of     first     Buddhist 

temple,  272 
Theosophists  at,  254-257,  268, 

273,  276-278 


Bhils,  184-185 
Bible  localities,  1-3 
Birds: 

Agra,  at,  238 

Benares,  at,  250,  270 

Nesting      in      temples,       93, 

103 

Boars,  182 

Boatmen,  63-67,  70,  82,  83 
Brahma : 

Evening  prayer  to,  67 

Vision  of,  278 
Brahminism : 

Festival  of  Vishnu,  90-91, 100, 
103,   106-112 

Festival,  sexennial,  51 

Impenetrability  of,  60,  82 

Obscuring  ritual  of,  176 

Temples  of,  see  Temples 
Brahmins  : 

Bathing  by,  44,  259,  275 

Benares,  Pundit  at,  263,  27t- 
272 

Diet  of,  176-177,  212,  255 

Dress  of,  41,  106 

Odeypoure,  at,  175-179 

Status  of,  113,  265 
Buddha : 

Bench  of,  270-271 

Statues  of,  17,  19 

Temple  of,  first,  272 
Hucldiust    priest    at    the    Rock 

Temple,  16 
Buried  city.    See  Anuradhapura 

Capitals  of  columns,  97,  113 

Carpet  factories,  42 

Carriages,   various,   in   Gwalior, 

209-210 

Cars,  bullock,  28,  29 
Caste,  symbol  of,   41.   85,    106, 

178 
Cattle  with  supernuinerary£legs, 

232 


279 


280 


INDEX 


Caves,  156-166,  168-169 
Century,     nineteenth,     end    of, 

68 

Chariots  for  gods,  26 
Cheetahs,  192,  199 
Children  : 

Brahmin,  113 

Cartload  of,  at  Benares,  271 
Clothes  of,  42 
Famine  song  of,  169-173 
Starving,  193-195,  199,  203 
Chitor,  175  and  note 
Chri-Jannath-Raijie,  temple  of, 

175,  177 

Chri-Jugat-Singhie,  King,  176 
Christianity,    Theosophical    at- 
titude towards,  273 
Christians    in    Travancore,    34, 

63 

Cochin,  kingdom  of : 
Arrival  in,  71 

Jewish  settlement  in.  73-78 
Palace  of  Rajahs  of,  78-80 
Voyage  from,  81-83 
Cochin,  town  of,  80-81 
Cocoa  palms,  34 
Coloured  powder  for  throwing, 

179 
Cranganore,   Jewish   settlement 

at,   73-74 

Crocodiles,  feeding  of,  196-197 
Crows,    32,    38,    53-54,    91,    94, 
103,  145,  195-196,  261-262 
Cruelty  in  creation,  167-168 

Dagabas,  15 
Dalantabad,  157 
Dawn,  103-104,  106-107 
Decoration  of  the  ground,   54, 

90,  101 

Delhi,  palace  at,  240 
Dourga  (Kali),  204-205,  265 
Drama,  Sanskrit,  116-117 
Drees  : 

Brahmins  of,  41,  106 
Turbans,  147-149,  209 
Women,    of,    117,    178,    191, 

210-211,  264,  277 
Dromedaries,  191 
Drought,    effects    of,     145-146, 
169-173.     See  also  Famine 
Dyeing  of  muslins,  211 

Egyptian  memories,  229 


Elephant-headed    god,    33,    91, 

94,  126 
Elephants  : 
Bath  of,  18 
Fear  inspired  by,  220 
Madura  temple,  of,  128 
Maharajah's,  49 
Natural  shapes  like,  35 
Old  sacred,   at  Chri  Ragam, 
98,    102,     105,     107,      108, 
109 

Representations  of,   15-16 
Rides  on,  214-220 
Stone,  in  cave  temples,   162, 

163-164 

Young  sacred,  91 
Ernaculum,  71 

Evil  spirits,  superstitions  as  to, 
31,  61 

Fakirs  : 

Benares,  at,  264,  274-275 
Gwalior,  in,  2 1 1 
Odeypoure,  at,   179-182 
Tombs  of,  242 
Famine  : 

Cost  of  rescue  from,  per  man, 

203 
Money  the  scarcity,  not  food, 

172,  193 

Rajput,  in,  146,  170 
Song  of,  169-173 
Victims  of,  190,  192-195,  197- 

201,  203,  207-208 
Fearlessness     of     animals     and 

birds,  140,  180,  270 
Female   line,    descent    through, 

45-46,  55 

Fish-eyed  goddess,  see  Parvati 
Fishing,  69 
Flowers,    offerings    of,    to    the 

gods,  11-12,  15,  16,  62 
Frescoes,  79-80 

Fretted  stone,  city  of,  208-215 
Funeral  processions,  211 
Funeral    pyres,    247-250,    252- 
254 

Galley,  voyage  in,  63-72 
Ganesa,  33,  91,  94,  126 
Ganges  River : 

Ceremonial   bathing   in,   259, 
275 

Drought's  effect  on,  246 


INDEX 


281 


Qanges  River  (continued) : 

Funeral    pyres    by,    247-250, 
252-254 

Palaces  on,  251,  267 

Sacredness  of,  268 
Ghaut  Mountains,  29-31.  34 
Girls'  College,  58-60 
Golconda,  151-150 
Granite  blocks,  35 
Great  Moguls,  233-237,  240 
Grottos,  156-166,  168-169 
Gwalior : 

Ancient,  217-220 

City  of  fretted  stone,  208-215 

Palace  of,  212 

Tombs  of  kings  at,  213 

Hanouman,  154 

Home  memories,  19,  27,  67-68, 

132,  177,  226,  233 
Hyderabad,   146-151 

Indian  Ocean,  29,  42,  56 
Interpreter,  186,  263 
Irrigation,  methods  of,   131 
Islamism,  91,  99,  145,  206 
Isolation  in  India  and  impene- 
trability  of   things   Indian, 
45,  50,  60,  72,  82,  85,  176- 
177,  232 
Ivory  workshops,  42 

Jews  : 

Cochin,    in,    73-78  ;     "  Black 

Jews,"   77-78 
Travancore,  in,  34 
Jeypore  (rose-coloured  city),  1 89- 

202 
Juggernaut,   228-233  ;     pilgrims 

at,  232 
Jumna,  River,  234,  236 

Kali  (Dourga),  204-205,  265 
Kandy,  drive  from,  8-10 
Kuth,  tower  of,  241 

Lachkar,  217 

"  Land  of  Charity  "  (Travan- 
core), 23,  34,  82.  See  also 
Travancore 

Litters,  210 

Madura  : 

Brahmin  family  at,  113-114 


Madura  (continued) : 

Temple  at,  113,  118-120,  124- 

130 
Theatre  at,  115-117 

Malabar,    Jewish    refugees    in, 
73-78 

Marriage     processions,      35-36, 
211,  234,  265 

Matancheri,  71  ;    Jewish  settle- 
ment at,  73-78 

Minakchi.     See  Parvati 

Monkeys,  230-231,  234,  265-266 

Montaz-i-Mahal,  238 

Moonlight,  19-20,  99,  206 

Mosques,  91,  99,  233 

Music  and  Musicians,  46-50 

Muslins  of  Rajputan,  210-211 

Nagercoil,    31  ;     journey   from, 

32-36 
Neyzetavaray,  32  ;  journey  from, 

36-37 
Nizam  : 

Nature  of  country,  145 
Stones  of,  153 

Oberon,  Isle  of,  recollections  of, 

27 
Odeypoure  : 

Beggars  of,   174 
Brahmin  priests  of,  175-178 
Enchanted  wood  of,  179-183 
Temple  at,  175,  177-178 
Odeypoure,  King  of.     See  Raj- 
put prince 


Palancota,  25,  26-28 
Palm  trees,  30,  32,  66  ;  products 
of,  69;  inscribed  with  sign  of 
Vishnu,  96 
Pandavas,  51,  231 
Parrot-faced  god,  52 
Parrots,  97,   108,  189,  267 
Parvasnath,  220  note 
Parvati  (fish-eyed  goddess) : 

Image  of,  122 

Indian  name  of,  113 

Stables  of,  129 

Treasures  of,  124-130 
Peacocks,  181 
Pondicherry : 

Dance  of  bayaderes  at,   135- 
140 

Description  of,  132-135 


282 


INDEX 


Pondicherry  (continued) : 
District  of,  130-131 
Regrets  on  leaving,  140-142 

Pottery  factories,  42 

Pyramids    of    sculptured    gods, 
97,  108,  112,  118 

Quilon,  66 

Rajput : 

Dynasty,  origin  of,  184 
Famine  in,  see  Famine 

Rajput   prince,    183;     visit   to, 
183-187;  palace  of,  187 

Ramadan,  99 

Red  Sea  scenery,  1-3 

Rock  temple,  15-17 

Rose-coloured    city     (Jeypore), 
189-202 

Rozas,  157 

Ruins  of  India,   170-171 

Saintonge,  recollections  of,    19, 

27 

Sanghamitta,  Princess,  11 
Sanskrit  plays,  116-117 
Senegal,  memories  of,  140 
Shoranur,  85 
Shrines  : 

Flowers  offered  on,  11-12,  15, 

16,  52 

Lamps  on,  12,  52 
Wayside,  84 
Singers,  50 
Siva: 

Boat  of,  120-124 
Caves    of,     156-166,    168-169 
Honour  to,  93 
Image  of,  at  Madura,  122 
Lingam  of,  166 
Mark  of,  41,  65,  261  ;   butter- 
fly, 209 

Procession  of,   121-123 
Statues   of,  in  cave   temples, 

163-164 
Temple   of,  at   Madura,   113, 

118-120,   124-130 
Spirits  of  the  dead,  native  fear 

of,  12,  20 
Squirrels,  40,  141 
Statues,  mutilated,  219-220  and 

note 
Statues    of   gods   in    pyramids, 

97,  108,  112 
Stones,  bas-reliefs  on,  15-16 


Suffering,  universality  of,    166- 

168 
Syrian  bishop,  34 


Tables,   roadside,   for    burdens, 

33 

Taj,  238-239  and  note 
Tanjore,  89 
Temples : 

Architecture  of,  119,  219 
Benares,   at,   see  under  Ben- 
ares 

Birds  nesting  in,  93,  103 
Cattle  in,  118,  125 
Cave,  162-166,  168-169 
Chri  Ragam,  94,  95-99,   100, 

103,  111 

Dirt  and  neglect  in,  119,  126 
Dourga    (Kali),    of,    204-205, 

265 

Juggernaut,  of,  228-233 
Madura,  at,  113,  118-120,  124- 

130 

Odeypoure,  at,  175,  177-178 
Parrot-faced  god,  of,  52 
Rock  temple,  15-17 
Seashore,  on,  57 
Tinnevelli,  23-26 
Tivu  Sivaya  peria  vur,  84 
Trichinopoly,  Rock  of,  89  and 

note,  91-95 

Trivandrum,  at,  39,  61 
Theatre  at  Madura,  115-117 
Theosophists— of   Madras,   228- 
227  ;    at  Benares,  254-257, 
268,  273,  276-278 
Tigers,  180 
Tinnevelli,  23-26 
Tirthankars,  220  and  note 
Tombs  : 

Delhi,  near,  241-242 
Royal — atGolconda,  155-156  ; 
at  Gwalior,  213;    the  Taj, 
238-239  and  note 
Tracery     in     powder     on     the 

ground,  54,  90,  101 
Travancore  : 

Approaches  to,  29-30 
Christians   and   Jews   in,   34, 

63 
College   for    noble    ladies    in, 

58-60 

Dynastic    descent    in,    45-46, 
55 


INDEX 


283 


Travanoore  (continued)  : 

Seaports  lacking   to,   29,   43, 

63 

Voyage  from,  63-72 
Travancore,  Maharajah  of,  visit 
to,    43-45;      difficulties    of 
communicating     with,     45, 
50 ;     palace    orchestra    of, 
46-50  ;     elephants    of,    49  ; 
guests  of,  51 
Travancore,  Maharanee  of,   45; 

visit  to,  54-56 
Travanoore,  Princes  of,  56 
Travellers'  rest,  32 
Trichinopoly,    Rock  of,  89  and 

note,  91-95 
Triohur,  situation  of,  81  ;    port 

of,  83  ;    temple  of,  84 
Trivandrum  : 
Arrival  at,  37 
Buildings     and     gardens     in, 

40 

Factories  in,  42 
Sea  view  from,  42-43 
Street  of  the  Merchants,  40, 

60-62 
Zoological  garden  of,  42-43 


Turbans,  147-149,  209 


Vedas,  teaching  of,  278 
Vishnu : 

Car  of,  100-101,  106-112 

Festival  of,  90-91,  99-103,  106- 
112 

Image  of,  most  sacred,  102 

Mark  of,  41,  96,  102 

Temple   of,    at   Chri   Ragam, 

94,  95-99,  100.  103,  111 
Visits,  hour  for,  39 

Waterside  birds,  69 
Women  : 

Appearance  of,  33,  85 
Bathing    of,    in    the  Ganges, 

259 
Decoration     of     the     ground 

traced  by,  54,  90,  101 
Dress  of,  117,  178,  191,  210- 

211,  264,  277 
Ruling  caste,  of,  45 
Worship,  ultimate  object  of,  53 

Yoghi,  dead,  261-262 


PRINTED  BY 

HAZEIX,  WATSON  AND   VINEY,  LD. 
LONDON  AND    AYLE8BURY. 


,,?•_ 


UCLA-College  Ubrary 

D8413V65iE1900 


L005  721   165  Q 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     001  086  026     o 


